More of Bukowski - I said, she said .......

Hi to whatever fellow poetry bloggers are out there.  I’m going away for a couple of weeks so will appear inactive; actually, at times I intend to look very inactive, akin to no life even, as I doze in a banana chair beside some hotel pool.  But don’t worry, my mind will be working on what rhymes with beer and has Robert Lowell influenced anything I’ve done, and how can I break the writer’s block on what I’m doing with ‘weekly running’.  Poetry goes with me everywhere.  Anyway, since I won’t be around and I don’t travel with a lap-top, I throw this post up as an interlude gesture.  I like some of the ‘he said, she said’ verse that you come across.  You find it in Charles Bukowski’s work, and I include an example from him, ‘free coffee’ (from Dangling in the Tournefortia, Black Sparrow Press).  This is a rather reserved poem for Bukowski, and maybe because of that, for me it works.  It’s an OK rendering of the little, simple, mundane, shitty, ordinary things of relationships and life - the break-up, the finding that the grass on the other side wasn't greener,  the hoping life is shitty for you also, the trying to get back to what you had before, the regret, the smugness because I've already got somebody else and it makes me feel so good that everything's turned to shit for you.

free coffee

Charles Bukowski (1921 – 1994)

 

it was on the telephone and he said, look, I’m with

Lisa now, I can’t do that –

and she said, I know, I understand, I just want you

to come and have coffee with me, I’m one

block away on Western, I just got in from Utah, I just

thought we’d have coffee for old time’s sake –

he said, all right

then he said to Lisa, be back in five minutes –

 

he got into the Volks and drove and there she was

sitting in her car and he got in and she had two coffees

waiting there outside of Pioneer Chicken.

 

hi, she said. hi, he said.

 

how’s it going? she asked.

 

fine, he said, real good.

 

you know Cal? she asked. well, he

turned out to be a god damned fag. it’s bad enough

to be competing with other women, there I was competing

with men….

 

I think I’ve lived with a couple of lesbians, he said,

but I’m not sure.

 

I really miss you, she said.

 

look, he said, I’ve got to be getting back.

 

I understand, she said, then leaned over and kissed

him.

 

see you, he said, and got out of her car and walked to

the Volks and as he drove off she was still sitting

in her car and he waved and she waved back…..

 

it was a perfect day in July and he walked back in

to Lisa sitting straight upright in a chair

as if she had been frozen for rebirth at a better time.

In my poem, ‘taking turns to make tea’, I experiment with that, 'I said, she said' form.  And I’ve got a rich vein of raw material to work from, right here in my own home.  Expect more.  See you in a couple of weeks…..

 

2010.  What you got to understand in a marital situation, is sometimes you ain’t never going to be right.  You will wrestle it every which way, trying your darnndest to understand where this is all coming from and what you is meant to do.  But all you learn is that you is inadequate and have to be rescued from your inadequacy.  Then you can get back to watching the game on television.

taking turns to make tea

 

she says what are you cooking for tea!?

he says, I don’t know, what would you like?

she says, I don’t care, I cooked last night,

         let somebody else have a turn!

he forages the freezer,

and finds a full 460 gram packet of new mince, and

about 250 grams left over from a used pack.

he decides to do rissoles in onion gravy,

mashed potatoes, veg.

she comes in the kitchen and sees the mince,

she says, what are you doing now!?

he says, rissoles,

she says she doesn’t want rissoles!

he says, well don’t eat it, you get something else!

she says, no!

he tries logic, but you said to cook tea and I asked you

what do you want, and

you said I don’t care,

so I decide to do rissoles, now you’re saying

you don’t want rissoles!

what the hell DO you want!?

she says she sure as hell doesn’t want bloody pig-swill,

wouldn’t feed it to the dog!

well what the fuck do you want!?

NOT rissoles!!

fine, get whatever you want then!

she slams down the hall, slams the key drawer,

slams the front door, slams out the house, and

comes back with ingredients for a veal parmegiano.

he says,

……. how was I supposed to know that!?

                                                                                                                            J. O. White

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

 

Charles Bukowski - genius or 'low life'?

I’m going to spend some more time with Charles Bukowski and then I’m going to get off him.  I’m going to get off him because I’m unsure of Bukowski the person, whether he was a character I would choose to admire or not.  Nor am I sure if he is the type of poet I want to aspire to.  Like, I’ve read the biography, Charles Bukowski (by Barry Miles, Virgin Books), and I think I understand the shaping of his world view because of his up-bringing and what life dealt him, but that doesn’t quite excuse the level of contempt and disdain for other people that he appears to hold and that comes through sometimes in his writing.  This view of mine was reinforced only recently when I looked at some you-tube clips of Bukowski interviews and readings.  There’s one where he and Linda (fiancée, then), are sitting on a couch, engaged in reality recorded conversation; Hank’s drinking and doing the typical movements of a smoker lighting up and talking around a thin, rolled cigarette.  He’s OK, calm, talking about how he believes he’s often taken advantage of because he reckons he’s too nice a guy, etc.  Linda hears what he says and supports his ego, “…… why do you let these people do this to you?”  There’s some to and fro conversation and Hank goes down a line of wanting to get rid of Linda because she’s been out late some nights, blah, blah, and she in turn tries to defend herself, when, out of nowhere, Bukowski turns extremely nasty – he lashes out with his feet to seriously kick Linda and he swears at her, threatens and calls her vile names – an ugly scene.  The change in mood is so sudden it’s like eruption from a tormented chimpanzee.  Why does he behave this way?  It’s too easy to look at the clip and just wipe the guy off as a prick!  But that would be wrong.  I think the key is in the fact that Linda and Hank went on and got married and she was his mate to the end.  Bukowski must have loved this woman (emotionally) more than he had felt about a lot of others.  I’m not a psychologist but I believe people can hate, or appear to hate, only because they do not know how to love (from a frustration of not knowing how to love) and having been given extreme low self esteem in their childhood development.  I think this is the case with Bukowski.  He was not nurtured and shown how to love within his family, so as an adult, his frustrated reaction in a situation where he feels love, is to turn it completely around and perform self hurt and denial – ‘fuck you!’ means, ‘you’re too good a person for a bastard like me (ergo: I love you)’.

I feel one has to be careful of this bitterness and contempt Bukowski shows for his fellow human being when one tries to copy his writing style.  It may be your natural propensity to pay out on society, but what contribution does it make to art, to get around belly-aching personal prejudices?  Sometimes I’ve got to do the reality check and ask myself, ‘am I writing something of substance here, or is this just belly-ache grumbling in notes from my personal diary?’  I include Bukowski’s poem, ‘a killer gets ready’, because I believe it passes the reality check.  Hank does seem to hold a bitter contempt for the man in uniform – a personal dislike.  But I think he says something more than, “there was this marine on the train and didn’t he think he was something!”  To me, this is an anti-war poem.  The world can always have war because the vanities of any number of young men are available to make it so bloody easy.

a killer gets ready

Charles Bukowski (1921 – 1994)

 

He was a good one

say 18, 19,

a marine

and everytime

a woman came down the train aisle

he seemed to stand up

so I couldn’t see

her

and the woman smiled at him

 

but I didn’t smile

at him

 

he kept looking at himself in the

train window

and standing up and taking off his

coat and then standing up

and putting it back

on

 

he polished his belt buckle with a

delighted vigor

 

and his neck was red and

his face was red and is eyes were a

pretty blue

 

but I didn’t like

him

 

and everytime I went to the can

he was either in one of the cans

or he was in front of one of the mirrors

combing his hair or

shaving

 

and he was always walking up and down the

aisles

or drinking water

I watched his Adam’s apple juggle the water

down

 

he was always in my

eyes

 

but we never spoke

and I remembered all the other trains

all the other buses

all the other wars

 

he got off at Pasadena

vainer than any woman

he got off at Pasadena

proud and dead

 

the rest of the trainride –

8 or 10 miles –

was perfect.

 

Something else I note in Bukowski’s, ‘a killer gets ready’ – is how Hank was a good observer of people; he studies this marine quite closely without engaging or giving himself away, and he matches what he observes to how he feels about it.  Bukowski’s ‘laureate of low-life’ (Time magazine) and autobiographical style has influenced me to write my own protests against what I’ve observed as thick-headed male behaviour.  This one I called, ‘Oil Men’:

 

2008. The Arab world may be alcohol free and the Moslem belief may keep women covered up, but drinking and womanising is OK for the arrogant western white man working in the middle east - the scene inside a Dubai ex-pat night club bar.

 

Oil Men

They were all big buggers,

solid blocks of beef,

with bulging biceps and barrel chests

that threatened to bust open stitching

on their Well Cat polo shirts

and stone-washed denims.

 

Moving like a pack of bull-dogs

they oafed straight into the bar

brandishing beer flushed faces

and dangerous egos.

 

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon,

but they’ve got to a state

where they’re all men,

standing in a circle with their legs planted,

like they’re pissing into a urinal,

holding onto themselves firmly

with hands thrust into the left pocket,

or feeding it into some whore’s mouth

while there’s loud back-slapping cheers,

and glasses get dropped

and break on the parquetry dance floor.

 

These ones don’t look as though there’s family,

or compassion,

 

the slim, oriental good time girls

…….hide back in the shadows.

                                                     J.O. White