Charles Bukowski – a smile to remember

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, "be happy Henry!"
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: "Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?"

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled

George Gordon Byron – from Don Juan: Canto 1, Stanzas 217-221

217

Ambition was my idol, which was broken

   Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure;

And the two last have left me many a token

   O'er which reflection may be made at leisure:

Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken,

   'Time is, Time was, Time's past', a chymic treasure

Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes—

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

 

218

What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill

   A certain portion of uncertain paper:

Some liken it to climbing up a hill,

   Whose summit, like all hills', is lost in vapour;

For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,

   And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,'

To have, when the original is dust,

A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

 

219

What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's King

   Cheops erected the first pyramid

And largest, thinking it was just the thing

   To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;

But somebody or other rummaging,

   Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:

Let not a monument give you or me hopes,

Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 

 

220

But I being fond of true philosophy,

   Say very often to myself, 'Alas!

All things that have been born were born to die,

   And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;

You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,

   And if you had it o'er again—'twould pass—

So thank your stars that matters are no worse,

And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.' 

 

221

But for the present, gentle reader! and

   Still gentler purchaser! the bard—that's I—

Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,

   And so your humble servant, and good bye!

We meet again, if we should understand

   Each other; and if not, I shall not try

Your patience further than by this short sample—

'Twere well if others follow'd my example.

Charles Bukowski – A Following

the phone rang at 1:30 a.m.
and it was a man from Denver:

"Chinaski, you got a following in
Denver..."
"yeah?"
"yeah, I got a magazine and I want some
poems from you..."
"FUCK YOU, CHINASKI!" I heard a voice
in the background...
"I see you have a friend,"
I said.
"yeah," he answered, "now, I want
six poems..."
"CHINASKI SUCKS! CHINASKI'S A PRICK!"
I heard the other
voice.
"you fellows been drinking?"
I asked.
"so what?" he answered. "you drink."
"that's true..."
"CHINASKI'S AN ASSHOLE!"
then
the editor of the magazine gave me the
address and I copied it down on the back
of an envelope.
"send us some poems now..."
"I'll see what I can do..."
"CHINASKI WRITES SHIT!"
"goodbye," I said.
"goodbye," said the
editor.
I hung up.
there are certainly any number of lonely
people without much to do with
their nights

Charles Bukowski – 40,000

at the track today,
Father's Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
and each contained a
little surprise.
most of the men seemed
between 30 and 55,
going to fat,
many of them in walking
shorts,
they had gone stale in
life,
flattened out....
in fact, damn it, they
aren't even worth writing
about!
why am I doing
this?
these don't even
deserve a death bed,
these little walking
whales,
only there are so
many of
them,
in the urinals,
in the food lines,
they have managed to
survive
in a most limited
sense
but when you see
so many of them
like that,
there and not there,
breathing, farting,
commenting,
waiting for a thunder
that will not arrive,
waiting for the charging
white horse of
Glory,
waiting for the lovely
female that is not
there,
waiting to WIN,
waiting for the great
dream to
engulf them
but they do nothing,
they clomp in their
sandals,
gnaw at hot dogs
dog style,
gulping at the
meat,
they complain about
losing,
blame the jocks,
drink green
beer,
the parking lot is
jammed with their
unpaid for
cars,
the jocks mount
again for another
race,
the men press
toward the betting
windows
mesmerized,
fathers and non-fathers
Monday is waiting
for them,
this is the last
big lark.
and the horses are
totally
beautiful.
it is shocking how
beautiful they
are
at that time,
at that place,
their life shines
through;
miracles happen,
even in
hell.
I decide to stay for
one more
race.

George Gordon Byron – The Destruction of Sennacherib

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

   Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

   For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

   And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

   And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

   And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!