The Beauty of Bukowski

An Ode to Charles Bukowski

A self-indulgent post about my favourite poet

 I find it somewhat difficult to put it into words just how much love I have for the writings of Charles Bukowski. However, with this post I aim to try. Hopefully, I may persuade some of you to read some of his works in the meantime. 

When I first discovered Bukowski, I was on my work experience placement at a local newspaper. I had an hour to kill before I had to go back so I mooched around Waterstones, debating whether or not to spend my lunch money on a copy of 'Slaughterhouse-Five' (a habit of mine that I need to try and keep in check; I spend about £200+ on books every year). I meandered into the poetry section and that's when I saw It. 

Spellbound, I staggered over to the bookshelf and wonderingly ran a finger along the spine. With trembling hands I removed it and weighed the tome; it was quite heavy, as though the content within was so hard-hitting that the paper could barely contain it. The book in question was 'The Pleasures of the Damned', a collection of poems by a man named Bukowski. I can't say what it was about the book that drew me in... there was something about it, a gravity that clutched onto me and sucked me into its orbit. You'd think that in that moment I would have forsaken my BLT and splurged out on the anthology there and then. 

But you would be wrong.

I left the bookstore with empty hands, heavy purse and a firm idea in my head that, when the time came, I would make that book mine. 

The time in question came almost three months later whilst I was on holiday. As per the norm, I entered the bookstore and there it sat, the centre piece of an otherwise bland display. I didn't hesitate; I grabbed it, paid for it and hid it in my bag so that my Dad wouldn't see it and tell me off for buying 'another damn book'! But that night, as I sat on the edge of my bed and I opened to the first page, I felt an overwhelming feeling of excitement. I knew that it was my calling to read this book. I jumped into his grimy underworld and I have yet to pull myself back. 

The underlying theme of all of Bukowski's works is his gritty, dirty take on everyday life. He doesn't give a damn about censorship, about the taboo; he tells it like it is. One of my favourite poems (and the namesake of this blog) An Empire of Coins is a perfect example of his brutal commentary on the drudgery of every day life. One particular quote that always stands out for me is: 

"is there anything less abstract
than dying everyday and
on the last day?"

But there are moments where his words aren't revolutionary, but rather are gentle and wrap themselves around you like an old blanket. The last verse of Verdi is one of the most beautiful I have ever read. Bluebird is Bukowski's soul-destroying admission of just how lonely he really feels and how the barriers he's built have caged him. But I would testify to the fact that Mind and Heart is perhaps his greatest poem, simply because of the honesty and the open way in which it is written. It never fails to bring me to tears.

I have bought several of his works since that point, but I will never forget my first time really discovering Charles Bukowski. To quote Leonard Cohen:

"He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels."