Charles Bukowski

(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

Charles Bukowski Poems

121. Friends Within The Darkness 1/1/2004
122. Death Wants More Death 1/13/2003
123. 2 Flies 3/31/2010
124. Eulogy To A Hell Of A Dame 1/1/2004
125. Girl In A Miniskirt Reading The Bible Outside My Window 1/13/2003
126. For Jane 1/13/2003
127. A Following 1/13/2003
128. Close To Greatness 1/3/2003
129. Carson Mccullers 1/3/2003
130. Cows In Art Class 1/13/2003
131. 40,000 1/13/2003
132. To The Whore Who Took My Poems 1/13/2003
133. Raw With Love 1/1/2004
134. Let It Enfold You 1/1/2004
135. Consummation Of Grief 1/13/2003
136. Big Night On The Town 1/13/2003
137. The Genius Of The Crowd 1/13/2003
138. A Challenge To The Dark 1/13/2003
139. A Radio With Guts 1/13/2003
140. Back To The Machine Gun 1/3/2003
141. As The Poems Go 1/13/2003
142. As The Sparrow 1/13/2003
143. Confession 1/3/2003
144. Cause And Effect 1/13/2003
145. Are You Drinking? 1/13/2003
146. Be Kind 1/13/2003
147. And The Moon And The Stars And The World 1/13/2003
148. An Almost Made Up Poem 1/13/2003
149. Bluebird 1/13/2003
150. A Smile To Remember 1/3/2003
151. Alone With Everybody 1/1/2004

Comments about Charles Bukowski

  • Bryan Alexander (10/19/2009 10:58:00 PM)

    tonight I drink for you.... thanks henry...

    12 person liked.
    9 person did not like.
  • Davide Nardi (3/27/2009 10:35:00 AM)

    BU Today wrote a wonderful ode to the master of poets:

    http: //

  • Doren Robbins Doren Robbins (12/13/2008 5:19:00 PM)

    From: “Drinking Wine In The Slaughterhouse With Septuagenarian Stew.” Read the entire essay at Click under ESSAYS.

    Bukowski’s poems are capable of unpretentiously relating insight with unglamorous epiphanies about the involuntary effects of difficult, unavoidable circumstances that happen in life; some celebrating the experience with humility. Humility that enhances literary style is rare; few writers contain the talent. To survive without adding to the horror is sometimes the best we can do; it is at least an effort that makes sense as a starting point. There is courage, discipline, and cunning in the effort. Finally, what remains after a poet’s survival, which is not an inconsequential matter in our culture—is the art. In the art of Bukowski the most central theme, both comically and tragically, is simply the passion to exist, to take it as it comes and recount what it was all about, and, paradoxically, the butchery done to that passion, and the butchery endured, by humans.

    Doren Robbins,

  • Peter Stavropoulos Peter Stavropoulos (11/19/2008 5:51:00 PM)

    There's no escaping it, Bukowski was a genius.

  • Gaitty Ara (9/15/2008 2:44:00 AM)

    A strange poem. if one wants to call it so.. but touching indeed

  • Kacie Cal (6/28/2006 12:54:00 PM)

    ya i love bukowski! ! ! did you know that they are turning Factotum into a movie pretty soon? i think mid august- apperently its soundtrack kicks butt too!

  • Sinking Feeling (6/21/2006 12:33:00 PM)

    Does anyone have news or reviews from the Factotum movie?

  • Neil Gray (6/3/2006 2:45:00 AM)

    Thank you Henry...........

  • Shannon R. Ouellette (2/22/2006 7:29:00 PM)

    this man is amazing, really. im porbably a lot younger then many people who admire this guy but seriously... hes so... i dont know, buddy neilson from senses fail got me interested in him.

  • Jon Edward (11/7/2005 4:53:00 PM)

    Quite possible the second most profound sexual predator of the 20th century. Jon

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
and nobody finds the
but keep
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than

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

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

These Things

these things that we support most well
have nothing to do with up,
and we do with them
out of boredom or fear or money
or cracked intelligence;
our circle and our candle of light
being small,
so small we cannot bear it,
we heave out with Idea

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