Walking Over Bridges

Something always brings me back to Charles Bukowski. It’s easy to get lost in a new book, to be caught in the pull of a new or unfamiliar writer, and for a few days lose sight of the familiar standards on the shelves around you, but in my case not too many days will pass before my eye returns to Bukowski. If we were not out of touch, I would thank for the third or fourth time the friend who introduced me to the writing of Charles Bukowski over twenty years ago.

Henry Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) was never one for failing to acknowledge the writers who were an influence in his life, either positive or negative. He was as easy with praise as he was with criticism both on the record and off. Among the writers that Bukowski admired were the Norwegian Knut Hamsun, Frenchman Louis-Ferdinand Celine and Americans John Fante and Sherwood Anderson.

Bukowski deeply admired Sherwood Anderson’s work. Writing about him in his journal-like book, The Captain is out to Lunch and the Sailors have Taken Over the Ship, he said, ‘I think Sherwood Anderson was one of the best at playing with words as if they were rocks, or bits of food to be eaten. He painted his words on paper. And they were so simple that you felt rushes of light, doors opening, walls glistening. You could see rugs and shoes and fingers. He had the words. Delightful. Yet, they were like bullets too. They could take you right out. Sherwood Anderson knew something, he had the instinct. Hemingway tried too hard.’ Talking about him near the end of his life Bukowski again praised Anderson, saying, “Sherwood Anderson knew something. He had the instinct.”

The poem below first appeared in Bukowski’s 1981 collection Dangling in the Tournefortia, and later in the posthumous collection, The Pleasures of the Damned, published in 2007.

ONE FOR SHERWOOD ANDERSON

sometimes I forget about him and his peculiar

innocence, almost idiotic, awkward and mawkish.

he liked walking over bridges and through cornfields.

tonight I think about him, the way the lines were,

one felt space between his lines, air

and he told it so the lines remained

carved there

something like van Gogh.

he took his time

looking about

sometimes running to save something.

then at other times giving it all away

he didn't understand Hemingway’s neon tattoo,

found Faulkner much too clever.

he was a midwestern hick

he took his time.

he was as far away from Fitzgerald as he was

from Paris.

he told stories and left the meaning open

and sometimes he told meaningless stories

because that was the way it was.

he told the same story again and again

and he never wrote a story that was unreadable.

and nobody ever talks about his life or

his death.

Anderson’s death was an unusual one. While eating the olive in his martini, he accidentally swallowed the toothpick on which the olive was speared. Death came as a result of peritonitis caused by a perforated colon.

Lesbians Held Hands

More often than not a poem by Mary Jo Salter fails to hold my attention beyond a span of five or six lines, too frequently being a string of moments tied to the quotidian flow of domestic life. I suppose that criticism could be countered by someone pointing out that in my case, Charles Bukowski, a great favorite, also wrote volumes about unremarkable and seemingly mundane situations in life. In defense of that I would say that Salter is simply not the poet that Bukowski was. In Salter’s case there is sometimes the sense of attempting to weave television sets into lines of poetic meter while on another page casting a critical eye upon the already proven:

…give me Sondheim any day.

I’ve had my fill of Frost,

proud again to be lost,

coming upon his fork

in the road for the millionth time,

or stumbling upon woodpiles

of somebody else’s work.

—excerpt from “Out of the Woods” The Atlantic, October 2009

Certainly a writer is free to express opinion, observation or belief in any way that opens a chink of light for the reader, but it doesn’t always seem to work for Salter.

Salter was born in Michigan in 1954, received her BA from Harvard and an MA from Cambridge; was a staff editor at The Atlantic Monthly and poetry editor of The New Republic before co-editing The Norton Anthology of Poetry, 4th and 5th editions. Salter’s essays and reviews have appeared in The New York Times Book Review. She has spent extended periods of time living abroad, alternately in Japan, England, Italy, Iceland, and France. Currently a professor in the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University, her sixth and latest collection of poems, A Phone Call to the Future: New and Selected Poems, was published in March 2008.

I thank The Writer’s Almanac for bringing to my attention a poem by Salter that I do like very much. In “Au Pair” a poem originally published in a 1999 collection and included in the more recent A Phone Call to the Future, the poet calls upon her experience of living abroad to paint a portrait of a French girl working as an au pair in American suburbia. Whether she means to or not, Salter shows us a fierce perspective of the American way. There is also a delightful sense of humor throughout. It might be that I connected with this poem because as a former expatriate most of the French girl’s observations about Americans and the American way of life mirror my own thoughts.

AU PAIR

The first thing she’d noticed, as they sat her down for lunch
by the picture window, was flags all doing a dance
in front of houses: was today a holiday?
No, they said smiling, it’s just the American way,
and she couldn’t help reflecting that in France
nobody needed reminding they were French,

but the neighborhood had turned out very nice,
no fences, big yards, kids racing back and forth;
you could let the shower run while you were soaping
or get ice from a giant refrigerator’s face.
She couldn’t believe how much the franc was worth
and she had no boyfriend yet, but she was hoping,

and because her father was the world’s best baker
she naturally thought of his bakery in the Alps
whenever they passed her a slice of their so-called bread,
and sometimes she wished she could hire a jet to take her
back just for breakfast, but as her great-aunt had said
so wisely more than once, it never helps

to make comparisons, so she mostly refrained.
She couldn’t believe, though, how here whenever it rained
the mother sent children out without their coats,
not carelessly, but because she had no power
and nobody made them finish the food on their plates
and bedtime was always bedtime plus an hour,

so au pairs were useless really, except for the driving.
Yes, that was puzzling: after she cracked up the car
they didn’t blame her or ask her to pay a thing,
but once she let Caitlin eat some sort of cherry
with red dye in it, and then the were angry, very.
Americans were strange, that much was clear:

no penmanship, and lesbians held hands
on the street, and most women carried a pair
of pumps in a bag they never took out to wear;
it was so disrespectful, she couldn’t understand
how the older ones got called nothing, not even Madame,
but then nobody in this country had a last name

which was going to make it hard to write them a letter
when she got back. It was really bittersweet
her visa running out; she was sad that all
she’d done with her days off was go to the mall,
she’d bought a million T-shirts and that was great
but she had to admit it, saving would have been better,

and she knew somehow that when she got on the plane
she’d probably never live anywhere foreign again
which filled her American family with more pity
than she felt for herself, because at least she was coping,
she’d work at her sister’s shop and stay in the city
where she had no boyfriend yet. But she was hoping.

Back to the Buk

Good reason that over five feet of bookshelf around here is taken up by the work of Charles Bukowski. More than any other poet the writing of Bukowski calls me back again and again. Of the over forty-five books of poetry, stories, letters, columns and novels that make up the published work, there are holes in my collection that I work slowly at remedying, always hoping that the next turn through a used bookstore will unveil a missing Bukowski. Meanwhile I read and reread his stuff without ever growing tired or less admiring of his easy lines.

Taking another look at the 2006 collection, Come on In!: New Poems, it was a different pair of poems that caught my attention this time. And that’s what I so enjoy about reading Bukowski; you just never know what line or which poem is going to find the perfect fit for the vagaries of the day and mood.

CUT-RATE DRUGSTORE: 4:30 P.M.

this woman at the counter ahead of me

was buying four pairs of panties:

yellow, pink, blue and orange.

the lady at the register kept picking up

the panties and

counting them:

one, two, three, four.

then she counted them again:

one, two, three, four.

Will there be anything else?

she asked the lady who was buying the

panties.

no, that’s it, she answered.

no cigarettes or anything?

no, that’s it.

the woman at the register

rang up the sale

collected the money

gave change

looked off into the distance

for a bit

and then she bent under the counter

and got a bag

and put the panties in this bag

one at a time—

first the blue pair, then the yellow,

then the orange, then the pink.

she looked at me next:

how are you doing today?

fair, I said.

is there anything else?

cigarettes?

all I want is what you see in front of

you.

I had hemorrhoid ointment

laxatives

and a box of paper clips.

she rang it up, took my money, made

change, bagged my things, handed them

to me.

have a nice day, she did not say.

and you too,

I said.

IN THE CLUBHOUSE

he is behind me,

talking to somebody:

“well, I like the 5 horse, he closed well last

time, I like a horse who can close.

but you know, you gotta kinda consider

the 4 and the 12.

the 4 needed his last race and look at

him, he’s reading 40-to-1 now.

the 12’s got a chance too.

and look at the 9, he looks really good,

really got a shine to his skin.

then too, you also gotta consider the 7…”

every now and then I consider murdering

somebody, it just flashes in my mind for a

moment, then I dismiss it and rightfully

so.

I considered murdering the man who

belonged to the voice I heard,

then I worked on dismissing the thought.

and to make sure, I changed my seat,

I moved far down to my left,

I found a seat between a woman wearing a

sun shade and a young man violently

chewing on a mouthful of

gum.

then I felt

better.

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) was born in Germany of a German mother and American father. Except for some cross country roaming in his early years, he lived his whole life in Los Angeles. His poetry focuses on the ordinary life of average people, women, alcohol, writing and the drudgery of low level employment. In an interview he once said: “You have a picture of where you are…Since I was raised in L.A., I’ve always had the geographical and spiritual feeling of being here. I’ve had time to learn this city. I can’t see any other place than L.A.”

For more Bukowski look here, here and here.

My Horse Turned Left

Most of the day around here has been a confusion of cords and cables and sub-normal connections. Circuits smoked, signals crossed and wires dead-ended. Wouldn’t it be nice to think that life could really be a case of plug and play? Well, good luck on that. Without my good friend Nobu offering up some expertise I might still be tangled in a hell of connecting cables.

Exhausted at the end of our electronic wrestling match, I flopped into a chair with a highball and reached for the nearest book at hand. Around here you can never be sure what ‘reaching for’ is going to yield, but this time it was Charles Bukowski’s 2007 The People Look Like Flowers At Last: New Poems. Any regular visitor to these pages will already know that Bukowski holds a special place in my heart. His honesty appeals, his bravery inspires. Below are two poems from the 2007 collection.

ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS

all of my knowledge about horse racing
told me that this was a sure bet.
I bet one thousand to win.
the horse had post one
at 6 furlongs.

the bell rang and they came
out of the gate.

my horse turned left
ran through the fence
fell down and
died
right there
at 7/5.

when I tell people this story
they don’t say
anything.

sometimes there’s nothing to say
about
death.

I LIVE IN A NEIGHBORHOOD OF MURDER

the roaches spit out rusted

paper clips

and the helicopter circles and circles

smelling for blood

searchlights leering down into our

bathrooms

searching for our two-lid cache under the

mattress.

5 guys in this court have pistols

another a

machete

we are all murderers and

alcoholics

but there are worse in the hotel

across the street;

they sit in the green and and white doorway

banal and depraved

waiting to be

institutionalized.

here we each have a dying green plant

on our porch

and when we fight with our women at 3 a.m.

we do so

in hushed tones

as outside on each porch

stands a small dish of food

that is always eaten by morning

we presume

by the

cats.

“More coffee?”

Poets will from time to time take themselves and their work too seriously, pulling their readers down by the heaviness of words and lines that scream out, “This is poetry.” Poet Charles Bukowski will very probably never be accused of that. From Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems (1997) — One small sample of Bukowski humor.

COFFEESHOP

she has served me and I am eating. “is everything all right?” she asks.

“yes, thank you…”

“more coffee?”

“all right…”

I am reading the paper and eating. “cream?” she asks.

“no, thanks…”

she pours the coffee. 5 minutes pass. she is back

“is everything all right?”

“yes.”

“more coffee?”

“no.”

“are you going to try one of our desserts?”

“no, thank you…”

“come on, you only live once!”

“yes, I know…”

she leaves again. but not for long.

“you care for more rolls?”

“no, thank you…”

“did you like the turkey?”

“yes.”

“you ought to try our roast beef.”

“you mean now?”

“no, next time.”

she just stands there. “I saw you in here the other day with your daughter.”

“that was my wife.”

“oh, you’re married…”

“yes.”

“more coffee?”

“all right.”

“you take cream?”

“no cream.”

she comes back and pours the coffee. then leaves,

I try it. it’s unbearably strong. they don’t clean the coffee maker.

it’s time to leave, I need the bill. I look for the waitress. I don’t see her anywhere.

I read the paper: mass murderer boils the heads for soup.

the bus boy comes by, picks up my plate, leaves the bad coffee.

then he comes back carrying the coffee container.

“more coffee?”

“no, thanks, have you seen the waitress?”

“no.”

“where is she?”

“I don’t know.” he walks off.

I sit waiting. nobody appears. I get up from the table to go look for the waitress.

I find her just outside the kitchen, she’s smoking a cigarette and talking to the cook.

“waitress,” I ask, “can I have the check?”

“oh yes,” she smiles.

I go back and sit down. she arrives with the check. she’s signed her name at the bottom,

“thanks! Carolyn.” she has drawn a little smiling face.

she puts down the check on top of a wet spot.

“more coffee?”

“no, thanks.”

“was everything all right?”

“yes.”

she walks off. I leave a tip, go to the register, pay the bill.

the owner is behind the register. she takes my money, hands me the change without looking at me. she is an older woman, a bit on the heavy side. still looking at something else in front of her she asks, “was everything all right?”

“yes,” I answer and go out the door and into the street and into the world, never to return there again, not in this life or any life. I find my car, get in, drive away thinking, now if that wasn’t hell then hell isn’t going to be so bad.

Aug 16, 1920 - Mar 9, 1994

Yesterday was the birthday of poet and novelist, Charles Bukowski, who died in 1994 at the age of 73. To date, he has over sixty books in print—poetry, stories, novels and one screenplay—the most recent published in 2009. Bukowski’s wife, Linda Lee has continued over the years since his death to sort through the numerous boxes of unpublished pages her husband left behind, and to offer ‘new’ collections of his work. Through her, his readers have been treated to a new book almost every year, despite his death sixteen years ago.

The book featured here in the photograph is one I randomly chose from my collection, carries another typically Bukowski-like title, Septuagenarian Stew: Stories & Poems, and was published in 1990. I say randomly chosen only meaning that careful thought isn’t needed to pick a good book by Bukowski; they are all good, and all have their strengths. Septuagenarian Stew is an excellent example of the writer’s overview. There is also Run With the Hunted: The Charles Bukowski Reader, which many will recommend. Either one provides the reader an excellent introduction to Bukowski, if such is needed.

A short poem from Septuagenarian Stew, “cause and effect”

the best often die by their own hand

just to get away,

and those left behind

can never quite understand

why anybody

would ever want to

get away

from

them

Bukowski’s gravestone reads: DON’T TRY

He explained this phrase in a letter:

‘Someone at one of those places asked me: “What do you do? How do you write, create?” You don’t, I told them. You don’t try. That’s very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.’

Post Office Blues

The mail system here in New Smyrna Beach brings to mind scenes from the classic Bukowski novel, Post Office. Some of the book’s characters left Los Angeles and now work in NSB, I believe. For the first ten or twelve days I was here, there was no incoming mail, and I never laid eyes on a mailman or woman.

Email is fine, but in some areas we still depend upon the postal services for particular un-emailable letters or forms. With my recent geographic shift, it’s natural that the postal systems would be a part of the shift, and leave me for the time being, semi-dependent on their mail delivery services. I’ve already received notice that two incoming payments were returned to the senders, and my tax-prep return documents also suffered the same fate.

When I finally managed to snag a postwoman down the road, she almost admitted that things were out-a-hand down there at the P.O. She quickly scribbled off a number to call for postal disorders. Well, there must be some magic in that number, because my mailbox got goosed and next morning gushed forth stacks of mail. “Lawdy, Lawdy, I been found!” I might have shouted. Bukowski would have described it as sub-normal.

I had a chat with a couple of my neighbors about the mail drag, and they both asked if my name was on the INSIDE of the box. That apparently is a key factor, because someone did stick my name up inside, I noticed when pulling out all the mail. Must have been the building manager.

So, it’s not all singing frogs and herb gardens around here. The small bumps and snags will pop up, and over at the post office I don’t expect anything to be like that semi-famous brag of theirs, “Neither snow nor rain….”

For the Honesty

Charles Bukowski has for many years been at the heart of my bookshelves. An introduction to his work came via the salty X-rated articles he wrote in 1969 for the underground newspaper, Open City. A little later I bought a copy of his first novel, Post Office and laughed all the way through it. I discovered his poetry next in a collection called, The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills. By then Bukowski was in my blood. Sixteen years after his death I am still the devoted reader, always looking for that next posthumous collection of poems.

From his earliest work Charles Bukowski was the voice of America’s disaffected common man, a voice of such startling honesty that ‘telling it like it is’ took on new shape and dimension in his hands. In his stories and poems there was from the beginning never a single word or line of type that rang false, pretended at, or posed. Out of this diamond-sharp honesty came stories (his poems are all stories) that stir in the reader’s heart a mix of envy, admiration, laughter, sympathy, and even on occasion revulsion. I doubt that I have ever read a more honest writer than Charles Bukowski.

In 2009, the poet’s wife, Linda Lee Bukowski released through Harper Collins the next posthumous collection, selected from a virtual mountain of poems left in boxes at the time of Bukowski’s death in 1994. The collection is called, The Continual Condition, and includes sixty-three never-before-collected poems edited by the poet’s longtime publisher, John Martin.

The interesting thing about this poet’s work is that no matter what book or collection, or single poem you choose to look at, without textual hints you will find it difficult to date the writing. Bukowski was not a writer that academics could analyze and date according to style development, maturity, or any of the other measures used by literary critics. There is no doubt that Bukowski learned over his many years of disciplined writing how to use his words more effectively, how to always and always strip away the false word, or bloated line. The fact is, he wrote powerful and effective poetry from the very beginning, without the long and painful growing pains many writers require. (Bukowski’s growing pains were elsewhere.) In this sense, the new collection, The Continual Condition offers no startling new insights or revelations about the writer's body of work. It is simply a new addition to a long line of outstanding work.

Halfway through the book is a poem titled, “down the hatch.”

the god-damned ants have come marching here

and are climbing into my wine.

I drink them down.

the photos of my girlfriend’s god are

everywhere:

in the bathroom

in the front room

his face fills the walls.

he never spoke about or touched money.

he died 7 or 8 years ago.

her god.

today she went to a religious retreat

to worship him.

I went to the racetrack and won

$97.

tonight she went to a concert by

Devo

some kind of rock or punk group

or new wave music.

I sit here drinking wine and ants.

and I keep thinking, shit, all the women

I meet are simply crazy

one after the other

they are simple and crazy:

legs, mouths, brains, buttocks,

ears, feet

all wasted

on them.

even the ants know more.

I drink them and with

them.

this is what is called a

confessional poem.