Monday poem: Charles Bukowski

After a few dead weeks (appropriate, eh), the Monday poem is back with something which dovetails nicely into an earlier post about music and passion. It's incredible that its taken me this long to post a work by Bukowski - I, like so many of us, was consumed by his rambling music during the hazy, coffee-and-beer-fueled days of mid-college - but I could never find the right piece for the right day. This poem isn't quite right either, but its damn good and a little different, and so here we go.

For those of you playing at home, I'd like some style points for moving from The Donald to Mr. Barfly himself. A thanks is deserved to Tony Towle who was kind enough to write a nice note to me (my first from a featured poet!) in the small hours of the morning (sorry again about the mistake in your piece!) which got my juices flowing. I like the idea of a NY-guy amping me up to publish a L.A. story. Thanks again, Tony - I hereby dedicate line 19 (if someone can do so from a poem that isn't theirs) to you. Sorry Mr. Trump, no dice for you.

Charles Bukowski | me and Faulkner

sure, I know that you are tired of hearing about it, but
most repeat the same theme over and over again, it's
as if they were trying to refine what seems so strange
and off and important to them, it's done by everybody
because everybody is of a different stripe and form
and each must work out what is before them
over and over again because
that is their personal tiny miracle
their bit of luck

like now as like before and before I have been slowly
drinking this fine red wine and listening to symphony after
symphony from this black radio to my left

some symphonies remind me of certain cities and certain rooms,
make me realize that certain people now long dead were able to
transgress graveyards

and traps and cages and bones and limbs

people who broke through with joy and madness and with
insurmountable force

in tiny rented rooms I was struck by miracles

and even now after decades of listening I still am able to hear
a new work never heard before that is totally
bright, a fresh-blazing sun

there are countless sub-stratas of rising surprise from the
human firmament

music has an expansive and endless flow of ungodly
exploration

writers are confined to the limit of sight and feeling upon the
page while musicians leap into unrestricted immensity

right now it's just old Tchaikowsky moaning and groaning his
way through symphony #5
but it's just as good as when I first heard it

I haven't heard one of my favorites, Eric Coates, for some time
but I know that if I keep drinking the good red and listening
that he will be along

there are others, many others

and so
this is just another poem about drinking and listening to
music

repeat, right?

but look at Faulkner, he not only said the same thing over and
over but he said the same
place

so, please, let me boost these giants of our lives
once more: the classical composers of our time and
of times past

it has kept the rope from my throat

maybe it will loosen
yours

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