Charles
Bukowski may come across as the ‘laureate of American low-life’ (Time
magazine); drunken, crass; open disdain for most everybody in the literary
world, ignorant, un-educated; but there are two things about his work that I
aspire to – one, he was a “prolific” writer.
Something inspired him to write and nothing got in the way of that; every
day, every night, write, laying down lines on paper. OK, in the pure poetic art world a lot of it may
be dismissed as no craft. But being
productive is a measure of a writer’s worth – there, I’ve introduced a third
indicator to quality work, there’s the content of the poetry; the crafting of
the poetry, and now, the productivity of the poet. Bukowski was productive and I’m aware of that
quality when I push myself along – how many poems will I complete this month,
this year? what am I working on? when is my writing time and how will I insist
on it (or how can I work it in with all the other stuff I’ve got going
on?). Most of us work at ordinary jobs
and we have family commitments that by necessity take priority over anything as
selfish as writing poetry – “what good’s that gonna do for us”, I hear
her say, “you’d be far better off spending your time helping me with the
washing or you could fix that balcony rail like I’ve been asking you to do a
million times, do I have to do it myself or get someone in, is that what you
want …………..” OK, OK, the writing can
wait! Another quality of the writer is
to know that you have forsaken your art for the greater good of the family unit
(no you haven’t; you’re just basically afraid!). Hank didn’t seem to let that shit get in his
way. Another aid to productivity is to
not spend too much time going back over your work. Don’t try to polish it, what is written, is
written, and move on. Bukowski seemed to
work this way. It’s sort of a belief
that the work comes from pure inspiration, from a ‘muse’ who inspires the words
to be written and it’s only when the morning comes that I will look and see what
it really was that I wrote. Fair enough.
The second
thing about Bukowski that inspires me is, despite his lack of education and
formal training in the art, he appears to have read widely and was familiar
with the work of recognized poets (some whom he admired) – Hemingway, e.e.
cummings, Esra Pound, Nietzsche, Celine, D.H. Lawrence, A. Huxley, Hamsun, J.D.
Salinger. In his poetry, Hank often pays
tribute to the names of great writers – almost like an academic snob educated
name-dropping, like he does with his self-taught knowledge of classical
music. OK, putting aside the lack of
humility (though he would not have become so published if he’d been humble), it
shows the importance for a non established writer to read and read and read the
work of those who have already been recognized.
In this, Bukowski was quite educated.
hand-outs
Charles Bukowski (1921
– 1994)
sometimes I am hit
for change
3 or 4 times
in twenty minutes
and nine times out of
ten I’ll
give.
the time or two
that I don’t
I have an instinctive
reaction
not to
and I
don’t
but mostly I
dig and
give
but each time
I can’t help but
remember
the many times
hollow-eyed
my skin tight to the
ribs my mind airy and
mad
I never asked
anybody
for anything
and it wasn’t
pride
it was simply because
I didn’t respect
them
didn’t regard them
as worthy human
beings.
they were the
enemy
and they still are
as I dig
in
and
give.
‘hand-outs’ is fairly typical of Bukowski –
autobiographical; mundane content, considered line breaks that pick up a
conversational flow that helps in reading.
I include this poem from Bukowski (The
Last Night of the Earth Poems, Ecco)
because I wrote a poem with similar content – not inspired by ‘hand-outs’ but
the crafting is certainly with Bukowski in mind:
2005. I
remember saying once that Melbourne
Melbourne
I lit
five candles,
one for
each of us,
and
stood them in the sand tray
at the
feet of the statue of Mary
in St
Augustines,
down
the Spencer Street Station end of Little Collins.
Outside
in the afternoon sun,
I knew
from the act
that I
was now good
for
being hit upon
by any
bum
drunk
wino
druggy
dead
beat
addict
derro,
or
street
dweller
enterprising
enough
to give
it a go,
the
word must have got out
because
up ahead
I could
see the beggars
pushing
off building pedestals
and
going into their routine,
brushing
down
baggy
brown clothing,
drawing
last minute inspiration
from
cigarette butts
and
then flicking the distractions
away to
the foot-path.
I let
one go,
maybe
two,
prepared
to be generous
to a
red haired young bloke
reminded
me something of Matthew,
he
worked his spiel,
and I
obliged
with a
number of suggestions
that
could hook him up
with
welfare agencies,
and he
beat me with reasons
why
they didn’t always work,
and all
the time
I’m
pulling my wallet
from
out of my back pocket
knowing
that the talk
about
agencies
and the
advice
and
concern to identify the problem
is all
bullshit,
for me
and for
him.
I’m so
imbued
I’m
going for a note
but
only a five,
too
cautious
to push
the charity, dependency, generosity
boundary
too
far,
the wallet
becomes like a lure
as I
hold it out
opening
it’s slit mouth a tiny fraction,
and the
bum
hovers
his fingers above mine
willing
to settle
the
transaction
here
and now,
though
he knows there’s
gotta
be
throw
away lines
of deep
appreciation
and
thank you sirs.
We’re
both
at
opposite ends
of the
note,
I
mumble something stupid, like
don’t
spend this on grog,
when
the bum reels back
as if
burnt with brimstone,
reefs
both sleeves
back
from fore-arms
turned
outwards for inspection, and
equally
stupid,
protests
that he’s clean.
.......... we both
leave it at that.
J. O. White
