Charles Bukowski

(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

Charles Bukowski Poems

1. air and light and time and space -new- 2/10/2016
2. No help for that 4/27/2015
3. On The Fire Suicides Of The Buddhists 1/13/2015
4. My Cats 1/8/2015
5. For The Foxes 11/26/2014
6. The Last Days Of The Suicide Kid 1/14/2015
7. Hell Is A Lonely Place 2/9/2015
8. The Trash Men 3/31/2010
9. So You Want To Be A Writer 3/23/2015
10. Trollius And Trellises 3/31/2010
11. German 3/31/2010
12. The Japanese Wife 3/31/2010
13. Goading The Muse 3/31/2010
14. I Am Visited By An Editor And A Poet 3/31/2010
15. The Laughing Heart 12/30/2013
16. New Mexico 1/13/2003
17. Gas 3/31/2010
18. The German Hotel 1/3/2003
19. Poetry 1/13/2003
20. The Shoelace 4/28/2011
21. Hemingway Never Did This 3/31/2010
22. Marina 1/13/2003
23. Poetry Reading 1/13/2003
24. The Shower 1/13/2003
25. My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant 1/3/2003
26. The Great Slob 1/3/2003
27. The Retreat 1/13/2003
28. Small Conversation In The Afternoon With John Fante 1/3/2003
29. Mama 1/13/2003
30. Crucifix In A Deathhand 3/31/2010
31. So Now? 1/13/2003
32. Shoes 1/13/2003
33. Layover 1/13/2003
34. The House 1/13/2003
35. Now 1/13/2003
36. Show Biz 1/13/2003
37. Short Order 1/13/2003
38. Something For The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks, And You . . . 1/13/2003
39. What A Writer 1/1/2004
40. The Sun Wields Mercy 1/1/2004
Best Poem of 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, ...

Read the full of A Smile To Remember

What A Writer

what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.

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