Bukowski - being a prolific writer.

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 was my conscience. 

 

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