Charles Bukowski

(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

Comments about Charles Bukowski

  • Craig Allen (6/19/2018 1:39:00 AM)

    I remember reading a poem - perhaps by Borges - that said something to the effect of We have air conditioning and well-working plumbing, but we still haven't written the poem. We have algebra and 4-wheel drive, but we still haven't been able to write the poem etc. etc. etc. Does anyone know it? Thanks!

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Craig Allen (6/19/2018 1:34:00 AM)

    Years and years ago I read a poem that I thought was written by Bukowski. Around mid-length, it's theme was somethng like. They're gonna win. The bastards win every time. We're gonna' lose. We're always gonna lose.
    Does anyone else remember this one?

  • Faraz (6/11/2018 1:08:00 AM)

    You visited a Hunter place

  • foley (5/26/2018 10:49:00 PM)

    one great mess because of advts

  • C.J. R (4/11/2018 9:18:00 AM)

    To Mar Mad, the poem you called Go all the way is titled The Laughing Heart in this list

  • Mar Mad Mar Mad (8/12/2017 6:10:00 PM)

    Why this one's not included in his poem list?

    Go all the way - Charles Bukowski

    “If you're going to try, go all the way.

    Otherwise, don't even start.

    This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. I

    t could mean not eating for three or four days.

    It could mean freezing on a park bench.

    It could mean jail.

    It could mean derision.

    It could mean mockery- isolation.

    Isolation is the gift.

    All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it.

    And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds.

    And it will be better than anything else you can imagine.

    If you're going to try, go all the way.

    There is no other feeling like that.

    You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire.

    You will ride life straight to perfect laughter.

    It's the only good fight there is.”

  • Nick Kler Nick Kler (3/3/2017 10:36:00 AM)

    @Georgios Venetopoulos
    Poetry is beyond any religion or a language. It has no language or boundaries, yet, it speaks to your soul. Intoxication or sobriety are just your current state of mind. Poetry comes from some far and forgotten land. I just never could understand those that love to criticize, just for the sake of it. Something in his writings pulled you here, made you stay, had you spend time writing No matter how positive or negative because that don't matter. The fact is that he pulled you towards himself, had you spend time, reading him and writing about him. He succeeded in his quest....

  • Alix Mangerian Alix Mangerian (1/5/2017 2:48:00 PM)

    The criticism of Bukowski made me laugh. It rather reminded me of Samuel Johnson criticizing the metaphysical poets: Make sense, dammit!

    Thanks for brightening my day!

  • Georgios Venetopoulos Georgios Venetopoulos (7/13/2016 12:35:00 AM)

    Bukowski is not a poet. He composes under the influence (intoxicated actually) and his writes are illogical and hellish, byproducts of his besotted thinking. Then, his devotees spend millions of minutes to exalt and explain his grandness in arbitrary compositions of ideas which follow the philosophy of whatever. Bukowski does not comprehend what 'verse means', his knowledge of the English language is elementary, his grammar is faulty but overall he manages to create an army of admirers who drink like him, compose like him and spit at the world like him.

  • Is It Poetry James Mclain Is It Poetry James Mclain (6/6/2016 6:20:00 PM)

    Dirty Dog - Poem by Is It Poetry

    His dirty dog kept
    moving on.
    Pissing on what he liked,
    but never owned.
    He knows they won't
    like it either.
    So they throw it out.
    A dog, 'Bukowski' owned.


    Is It Poetry

Best Poem of Charles Bukowski

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards...

Read the full of Alone With Everybody

The Retreat

this time has finished me.

[Report Error]