Charles Bukowski

(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

The Night I Was Going To Die - Poem by Charles Bukowski

the night I was going to die
I was sweating on the bed
and I could hear the crickets
and there was a cat fight outside
and I could feel my soul dropping down through the
mattress
and just before it hit the floor I jumped up
I was almost too weak to walk
but I walked around and turned on all the lights
and then I went back to bed
and dropped it down again and
I was up
turning on all the lights
I had a 7-year-old daughter
and I felt sure she wouldn't want me dead
otherwise it wouldn't have
mattered
but all that night
nobody phoned
nobody came by with a beer
my girlfriend didn't phone
all I could hear were the crickets and it was
hot
and I kept working at it
getting up and down
until the first of the sun came through the window
through the bushes
and then I got on the bed
and the soul stayed
inside at last and
I slept.
now people come by
beating on the doors and windows
the phone rings
the phone rings again and again
I get great letters in the mail
hate letters and love letters.
everything is the same again.


Comments about The Night I Was Going To Die by Charles Bukowski

  • (8/9/2007 5:02:00 PM)


    the night I was going to die

    I was sweating on the bed

    and I could hear the crickets

    and there was a cat fight outside

    and I could feel my soul dropping down through the

    mattress

    and just before it hit the floor I jumped up

    I was almost too weak to walk

    but I walked around and turned on all the lights

    and then I went back to bed

    and dropped it down again and

    I was up

    turning on all the lights

    I had a 7-year-old daughter

    and I felt sure she wouldn't want me dead

    otherwise it wouldn't have

    mattered

    but all that night

    nobody phoned

    nobody came by with a beer

    my girlfriend didn't phone

    all I could hear were the crickets and it was

    hot

    and I kept working at it

    getting up and down

    until the first of the sun came through the window

    through the bushes

    and then I got on the bed

    and the soul stayed

    inside at last and

    I slept.

    now people come by

    beating on the doors and windows

    the phone rings

    the phone rings again and again

    I get great letters in the mail

    hate letters and love letters.

    everything is the same again
    (Report) Reply

    12 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • (3/7/2006 11:39:00 AM)


    I think it's a fantastic expression. And, for the record, Mitchell Kingsland is an idiot. (Report) Reply

Read all 2 comments »



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Read poems about / on: night



Poem Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

Poem Edited: Wednesday, April 8, 2015


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