I bought this 2CD set at a 9th street bookstore in Manhattan's east village many years ago when BUKOWSKI recordings were hard to find. I had read all his books but never heard his voice. It felt like I struck gold! It was recorded at his home shortly before his death. Disc 1 is shorter poems and Disc 2 is longer stuff including him reading from the 1st few pages of his novel HAM ON RYE. BUKOWSKI was one of a short list of artists who changed my life in a profound way. RIP. BUK.
call it the greenhouse effect or whatever but it just doesn't rain like it used to. I particularly remember the rains of the depression era. there wasn't any money but there was plenty of rain. it wouldn't rain for just a night or a day, it would RAIN for 7 days and 7 nights and in Los Angeles the storm drains weren't built to carry off taht much water and the rain came down THICK and MEAN and STEADY and you HEARD it banging against the roofs and into the ground waterfalls of it came down from roofs and there was HAIL big ROCKS OF ICE bombing exploding smashing into things and the rain just wouldn't STOP and all the roofs leaked- dishpans, cooking pots were placed all about; they dripped loudly and had to be emptied again and again. the rain came up over the street curbings, across the lawns, climbed up the steps and entered the houses. there were mops and bathroom towels, and the rain often came up through the toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling, and all the old cars stood in the streets, cars that had problems starting on a sunny day, and the jobless men stood looking out the windows at the old machines dying like living things out there. the jobless men, failures in a failing time were imprisoned in their houses with their wives and children and their pets. the pets refused to go out and left their waste in strange places. the jobless men went mad confined with their once beautiful wives. there were terrible arguments as notices of foreclosure fell into the mailbox. rain and hail, cans of beans, bread without butter;fried eggs, boiled eggs, poached eggs; peanut butter sandwiches, and an invisible chicken in every pot. my father, never a good man at best, beat my mother when it rained as I threw myself between them, the legs, the knees, the screams until they seperated. "I'll kill you," I screamed at him. "You hit her again and I'll kill you!" "Get that son-of-a-bitching kid out of here!" "no, Henry, you stay with your mother!" all the households were under seige but I believe that ours held more terror than the average. and at night as we attempted to sleep the rains still came down and it was in bed in the dark watching the moon against the scarred window so bravely holding out most of the rain, I thought of Noah and the Ark and I thought, it has come again. we all thought that. and then, at once, it would stop. and it always seemed to stop around 5 or 6 a.m., peaceful then, but not an exact silence because things continued to drip drip drip and there was no smog then and by 8 a.m. there was a blazing yellow sunlight, Van Gogh yellow- crazy, blinding! and then the roof drains relieved of the rush of water began to expand in the warmth: PANG!PANG!PANG! and everybody got up and looked outside and there were all the lawns still soaked greener than green will ever be and there were birds on the lawn CHIRPING like mad, they hadn't eaten decently for 7 days and 7 nights and they were weary of berries and they waited as the worms rose to the top, half drowned worms. the birds plucked them up and gobbled them down;there were blackbirds and sparrows. the blackbirds tried to drive the sparrows off but the sparrows, maddened with hunger, smaller and quicker, got their due. the men stood on their porches smoking cigarettes, now knowing they'd have to go out there to look for that job that probably wasn't there, to start that car that probably wouldn't start. and the once beautiful wives stood in their bathrooms combing their hair, applying makeup, trying to put their world back together again, trying to forget that awful sadness that gripped them, wondering what they could fix for breakfast. and on the radio we were told that school was now open. and soon there I was on the way to school, massive puddles in the street, the sun like a new world, my parents back in that house, I arrived at my classroom on time. Mrs. Sorenson greeted us with, "we won't have our usual recess, the grounds are too wet." "AW!" most of the boys went. "but we are going to do something special at recess," she went on, "and it will be fun!" well, we all wondered what that would be and the two hour wait seemed a long time as Mrs.Sorenson went about teaching her lessons. I looked at the little girls, they looked so pretty and clean and alert, they sat still and straight and their hair was beautiful in the California sunshine. the the recess bells rang and we all waited for the fun. then Mrs. Sorenson told us: "now, what we are going to do is we are going to tell each other what we did during the rainstorm! we'll begin in the front row and go right around! now, Michael, you're first!. . ." well, we all began to tell our stories, Michael began and it went on and on, and soon we realized that we were all lying, not exactly lying but mostly lying and some of the boys began to snicker and some of the girls began to give them dirty looks and Mrs.Sorenson said, "all right! I demand a modicum of silence here! I am interested in what you did during the rainstorm even if you aren't!" so we had to tell our stories and they were stories. one girl said that when the rainbow first came she saw God's face at the end of it. only she didn't say which end. one boy said he stuck his fishing pole out the window and caught a little fish and fed it to his cat. almost everybody told a lie. the truth was just too awful and embarassing to tell. then the bell rang and recess was over. "thank you," said Mrs. Sorenson, "that was very nice. and tomorrow the grounds will be dry and we will put them to use again." most of the boys cheered and the little girls sat very straight and still, looking so pretty and clean and alert, their hair beautiful in a sunshine that the world might never see again. and
We had rain for more than 7 days and nights in Cork Ireland. So this poem felt relevant to me. I'd audio recorded my version of it - and then I came across this. Bukowski tells his story so many times better than I could ever do. Thanks Brian - I love this
Awesome post. I love artists that struggle because we find something we relate to that brings unification. RIP Henry. The "underdog" keeps the world running. peace and love. ty
Best friend to read to me in the darkest of times when I needed him the most. "He took me and lifted me up and dropped me off in a better place"- from CHB "Doestyvsky:
It doesn’t rain near as much as I remember when I was younger either. But I’ve noticed this for quite awhile now. It’s true though, the first couple of rainy days are great, but then it really starts to get at you cos your clothes won’t dry, your towels won’t dry, solar heating doesn’t work.
in North Carolina. We are supposed to get inches of rain! I just so happened to come back to this. I applaud the rain! I hope for it! Im a wee girl again praying for it. We gotta have it. Its beautiful and I love it. Cmon rain!
My god he described my house, must be why I love this guy my two favorite poets Robert Frost and Hank, One the man I wish I could be instead of being like Hank.
Lived in SoCal most of my life, late 1950s on. Not that much rain, and the long term engineered drought. How I'd LOVE to have 7 days of nonstop rain. You can do everything in it. The world is yours. What's wrong with people? Especially if you're Northern European, it's your natural weather.
Wouldn’t you love to hear his current commentary on this prophetic prose during this time with increasing poverty and global warming…I would. ..His silent voice is clearly missed.
I miss my friends since becoming ill and often wander if we will ever see each other again. now I'm steaming get off my radar they are not my friends on the telepaphone. loosing my mind and I don't care anymore thought it was something to save but it isn't. don't worry about me i still have my spirit.
8:50 in. You can hear a womanly voice trying to "manage" him. Like blackened fire mittens, claiming godliness! Like talking a jumper down from the roof tiles, only to glow brightest before the swiftly turning lime-light. Me! Me! wot about me?! Wiv all I've put up wiv, ova tha' years an' all, you don't know 'im like I DO !... lol "Smoke me a badger!, I'll be back for Kipper-time!"
Lol there was a 3-6 years long drought during the great depression, which turned the plain field states (Texas, Arkansas and especially Oklahoma) into "Dust holes"
How do you know that? Maybe the rain is a metaphor for pain. Blues. Hardships. But why analyze? Maybe it is just about rain. Maybe its about the Depression.
Fucking troll, what the hell would you know about poetry? This is a master thinking back on the depression that ruined so many peoples lives. He is pouring his heart out recalling all those horrible days of never knowing when the next horrible act would take place due to the poverty. Something you must know nothing about.
Nourishment he's merely talking ...thru his whiskey bottle here. He has written some better stuff...As for you...better in life to debate than to start swearing at people who have ideas outside of your own..and whom you do not know a thing about.....no wonder YOU are depressed...calm down ...stop attacking...reflect on life more.
A negative opinion is always unwelcome. Next time you find yourself somewhere you don't like, just move on with your life. No need to leave a trolling comment that isn't even funny, merely weak. As for the swearing, I meant no disrespect, I was talking thru a bottle.
God bless CHB, I know damn good and well that I'm not the only one he got thru some dark times. Share this great contemporary with all your friends and family. We need more Bukowski no matter what he said 😊
💕“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live.” - Charles Bukowski💕
everybody goes crazy, for many though it's just a more bland and mundane version of it
He paints a picture with his words and takes you back in time and you can really feel what he was feeling then and when he was a kid. Amazing writing.
Love his real voice as apposed to the voice actor.
Ilneus or wtf he calls himself drove me back to the books. honest to goodness paper, with a smell and memories and the pretentiousness bound tight.
Christian Baskous is a great narrator in my opinion. Of course it’s not as cool as Buk himself, but Baskous was the best person for the job.
@@oldpondfrog788 Haha, if you're pretentious about Bukowski, you haven't been reading enough Bukowski
Yeah, I love his voice. YT's got lots of great poetry!
Hell yeah
Such a raw and disturbed thinker with brilliant accuracy.. Stunning he is!
Get a load of this clown
@Goggle products what in the fuck are you on about?
Try it, this is art. It is BIM BIM BIM
Best fucking comment
That was a great interview!
I bought this 2CD set at a 9th street bookstore in Manhattan's east village many years ago when BUKOWSKI recordings were hard to find. I had read all his books but never heard his voice. It felt like I struck gold! It was recorded at his home shortly before his death. Disc 1 is shorter poems and Disc 2 is longer stuff including him reading from the 1st few pages of his novel HAM ON RYE. BUKOWSKI was one of a short list of artists who changed my life in a profound way. RIP. BUK.
I got a Charles Manson CD from there; It was a first pressing that is worth way more than the $7 I paid.
Hold on to those records! They are priceless..
You aint a kiddin. Id pay a kings ransom to have that physical copy @@robertafierro5592
Would love to still have him around to hear his perspective of this shit show we live in now.
yes indeed
@@aiancestor Now that is a great thought. We could run a competition on this. See who got voted the closest. Peace brother.
He wouldn't like it.
@@marknewton6984he wouldn’t want to be around for it lol I can already hear him yelling “put me back in the ground!”
"greener than green will ever be." now that's writing.
Brilliant listen, very rare to not hear a crowd or somebody interrupt him.
this is some rare, rare shit my friend. i am currently cutting some of his readings into a live project and this is a recording i lost....
God bless you sir! I hope it came to pass
This is so good. I don't care for poetry at all, but this...
call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn't rain like it used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the
depression era.
there wasn't any money but there was
plenty of rain.
it wouldn't rain for just a night or
a day,
it would RAIN for 7 days and 7
nights
and in Los Angeles the storm drains
weren't built to carry off taht much
water
and the rain came down THICK and
MEAN and
STEADY
and you HEARD it banging against
the roofs and into the ground
waterfalls of it came down
from roofs
and there was HAIL
big ROCKS OF ICE
bombing
exploding smashing into things
and the rain
just wouldn't
STOP
and all the roofs leaked-
dishpans,
cooking pots
were placed all about;
they dripped loudly
and had to be emptied
again and
again.
the rain came up over the street curbings,
across the lawns, climbed up the steps and
entered the houses.
there were mops and bathroom towels,
and the rain often came up through the
toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling,
and all the old cars stood in the streets,
cars that had problems starting on a
sunny day,
and the jobless men stood
looking out the windows
at the old machines dying
like living things out there.
the jobless men,
failures in a failing time
were imprisoned in their houses with their
wives and children
and their
pets.
the pets refused to go out
and left their waste in
strange places.
the jobless men went mad
confined with
their once beautiful wives.
there were terrible arguments
as notices of foreclosure
fell into the mailbox.
rain and hail, cans of beans,
bread without butter;fried
eggs, boiled eggs, poached
eggs; peanut butter
sandwiches, and an invisible
chicken in every pot.
my father, never a good man
at best, beat my mother
when it rained
as I threw myself
between them,
the legs, the knees, the
screams
until they
seperated.
"I'll kill you," I screamed
at him. "You hit her again
and I'll kill you!"
"Get that son-of-a-bitching
kid out of here!"
"no, Henry, you stay with
your mother!"
all the households were under
seige but I believe that ours
held more terror than the
average.
and at night
as we attempted to sleep
the rains still came down
and it was in bed
in the dark
watching the moon against
the scarred window
so bravely
holding out
most of the rain,
I thought of Noah and the
Ark
and I thought, it has come
again.
we all thought
that.
and then, at once, it would
stop.
and it always seemed to
stop
around 5 or 6 a.m.,
peaceful then,
but not an exact silence
because things continued to
drip
drip
drip
and there was no smog then
and by 8 a.m.
there was a
blazing yellow sunlight,
Van Gogh yellow-
crazy, blinding!
and then
the roof drains
relieved of the rush of
water
began to expand in the warmth:
PANG!PANG!PANG!
and everybody got up and looked outside
and there were all the lawns
still soaked
greener than green will ever
be
and there were birds
on the lawn
CHIRPING like mad,
they hadn't eaten decently
for 7 days and 7 nights
and they were weary of
berries
and
they waited as the worms
rose to the top,
half drowned worms.
the birds plucked them
up
and gobbled them
down;there were
blackbirds and sparrows.
the blackbirds tried to
drive the sparrows off
but the sparrows,
maddened with hunger,
smaller and quicker,
got their
due.
the men stood on their porches
smoking cigarettes,
now knowing
they'd have to go out
there
to look for that job
that probably wasn't
there, to start that car
that probably wouldn't
start.
and the once beautiful
wives
stood in their bathrooms
combing their hair,
applying makeup,
trying to put their world back
together again,
trying to forget that
awful sadness that
gripped them,
wondering what they could
fix for
breakfast.
and on the radio
we were told that
school was now
open.
and
soon
there I was
on the way to school,
massive puddles in the
street,
the sun like a new
world,
my parents back in that
house,
I arrived at my classroom
on time.
Mrs. Sorenson greeted us
with, "we won't have our
usual recess, the grounds
are too wet."
"AW!" most of the boys
went.
"but we are going to do
something special at
recess," she went on,
"and it will be
fun!"
well, we all wondered
what that would
be
and the two hour wait
seemed a long time
as Mrs.Sorenson
went about
teaching her
lessons.
I looked at the little
girls, they looked so
pretty and clean and
alert,
they sat still and
straight
and their hair was
beautiful
in the California
sunshine.
the the recess bells rang
and we all waited for the
fun.
then Mrs. Sorenson told us:
"now, what we are going to
do is we are going to tell
each other what we did
during the rainstorm!
we'll begin in the front row
and go right around!
now, Michael, you're first!. . ."
well, we all began to tell
our stories, Michael began
and it went on and on,
and soon we realized that
we were all lying, not
exactly lying but mostly
lying and some of the boys
began to snicker and some
of the girls began to give
them dirty looks and
Mrs.Sorenson said,
"all right! I demand a
modicum of silence
here!
I am interested in what
you did
during the rainstorm
even if you
aren't!"
so we had to tell our
stories and they were
stories.
one girl said that
when the rainbow first
came
she saw God's face
at the end of it.
only she didn't say which end.
one boy said he stuck
his fishing pole
out the window
and caught a little
fish
and fed it to his
cat.
almost everybody told
a lie.
the truth was just
too awful and
embarassing to tell.
then the bell rang
and recess was
over.
"thank you," said Mrs.
Sorenson, "that was very
nice.
and tomorrow the grounds
will be dry
and we will put them
to use
again."
most of the boys
cheered
and the little girls
sat very straight and
still,
looking so pretty and
clean and
alert,
their hair beautiful in a sunshine that
the world might never see
again.
and
Scrolled down just looking for this. Thank you. :-)
@@yogeshtak9223 duty
Thank you!
Thanks
Merci
I remember those days. He is 100% correct. It doesn't rain like it used to.
I can't believe this even has one dislike, this is poetry yes, but its also history. Magnificent
I love how he reads poetry and his stories are fascinating.
We had rain for more than 7 days and nights in Cork Ireland. So this poem felt relevant to me.
I'd audio recorded my version of it - and then I came across this. Bukowski tells his story so many times better than I could ever do.
Thanks Brian - I love this
Paul O'Mahony greetings my grandad Powell was from cobh
Holy Shit!! It started to rain outside!!!
One of the saddest things I have ever heard. Thank you for this.
it's not sad, it's life
Awesome post. I love artists that struggle because we find something we relate to that brings unification. RIP Henry. The "underdog" keeps the world running. peace and love. ty
Henry?
Joris Katz henry chinaski
The ice will fall soon.
Then fire from God.
And we will scream.
But God will not comfort us.
Love this man!!
Thank you. I love Bukowski so much ❤️👍✌️🇦🇺
:") so beautiful
Best poem to read/listen in global lockdowns.
Best poet to read in a global lockdown.
Best friend to read to me in the darkest of times when I needed him the most. "He took me and lifted me up and dropped me off in a better place"- from CHB "Doestyvsky:
10:05 love the bit where he talks to his cats
It doesn’t rain near as much as I remember when I was younger either. But I’ve noticed this for quite awhile now. It’s true though, the first couple of rainy days are great, but then it really starts to get at you cos your clothes won’t dry, your towels won’t dry, solar heating doesn’t work.
Solar heating, a foreign concept to bukowski
Rain…. Water is powerful and so was this poem…
in North Carolina. We are supposed to get inches of rain! I just so happened to come back to this. I applaud the rain! I hope for it! Im a wee girl again praying for it. We gotta have it. Its beautiful and I love it. Cmon rain!
Rain will be worth more than gold one day. But right now it only brings misery to my days
God Bless Buks
It gets the better of me, in hope.
Like a vivisection of my childhood.
If you think 7 days of rain is too much, try 6mnths here in Wales !
Loved this section in Ham on Rye
Sounds like and an ode to...T.S. Eliot , wonderful
An invisible chicken in every pot
Greener than green will ever be
If I had three choices, I would either be Diogenes, Alexander, or Henry.
🎉 lmao hell Diogenes would want to be Diogenes
Timely
🍺Hank is King of the World🥃🍷🍻
👑
Yes.
after my gran died it rained for a month
Yes! Same with Burroughs!! I said that in my comment on Junky Christmas, the claymation Gem.
I Love Bills "junky christmas" too! Really a gem...
Insert "Covid-19" and this applies to today.
My god he described my house, must be why I love this guy my two favorite poets Robert Frost and Hank, One the man I wish I could be instead of being like Hank.
Kiitos
It's not Bukowski unless Bukowski is reading it
Lived in SoCal most of my life, late 1950s on. Not that much rain, and the long term engineered drought. How I'd LOVE to have 7 days of nonstop rain. You can do everything in it. The world is yours. What's wrong with people? Especially if you're Northern European, it's your natural weather.
Do you actually believe this poem is about the rain? I suggest you read it again.
you can do everthing in it ? WHATja does THAT even mean ?
Where is it take from ? Is there a long version with plenty of poems ?
Wouldn’t you love to hear his current commentary on this prophetic prose during this time with increasing poverty and global warming…I would. ..His silent voice is clearly missed.
❤
Know where I could find the full session?
I miss my friends since becoming ill and often wander if we will ever see each other again. now I'm steaming get off my radar they are not my friends on the telepaphone. loosing my mind and I don't care anymore thought it was something to save but it isn't. don't worry about me i still have my spirit.
This is fucking genius
8:50 in. You can hear a womanly voice trying to "manage" him. Like blackened fire mittens, claiming godliness! Like talking a jumper down from the roof tiles, only to glow brightest before the swiftly turning lime-light. Me! Me! wot about me?! Wiv all I've put up wiv, ova tha' years an' all, you don't know 'im like I DO !... lol
"Smoke me a badger!, I'll be back for Kipper-time!"
The fuck are you talking about?
It was just Linda
Coiled barbed memories bubble up through the prison bars of hate and rot...
True so far as I can tell &&^》
Its like a little story
Lol there was a 3-6 years long drought during the great depression, which turned the plain field states (Texas, Arkansas and especially Oklahoma) into "Dust holes"
Sound familiar?
screaming not steaming.
I am working on my impersonation of him...VERY DIFFICULT. Chuck was OOAK.
Don't do it
sheesh
119
“Nasty shit..”
Still a performance
In the years 2024, '25, '26, '27, we'll have money, unlimited capital and it will come like heavy rainfall/
🕊️🪷🕊️
Is today.....worst???!!!
t^ realove a s m r
I've been in Seattle when it rained 90 days straight . Funny when bukowski said rain for 7 days straight.ha ha ha ha ha
Darrell Grey one is a tropical rain forest and the other is a sea level beach front city.
California has less and less, the pattern of rainy seasons no more, rare mostly drought.
Its weird man.
Charles Bukowski's Ghettoes are Soothing in their Commiserations...but They're Not One Bit Inspiring or Uplifting!
I don't think he cared about inspiring or uplifting, only making you think
The poem is about war, not rain but bombs
How do you know that? Maybe the rain is a metaphor for pain. Blues. Hardships. But why analyze? Maybe it is just about rain. Maybe its about the Depression.
He was a realist poet, so I doubt it means that. It just means what he says it is.
@@christopherbloor3901 exactly!!! Right on.
It means what it mean, pick your beans
@@stacyblue1980 maybe both and more, just maybe.
A fat set of thighs
I like him as a person, but I still don't understand the appeal of stories or poems.
A weak poem
this is one of the best poems ever written. ever. by anyone on any planet.
there, intergalactic balance restored.
A weak criticism, by a weak mind that surely doesn't appreciate the art of observance.
Fucking troll, what the hell would you know about poetry? This is a master thinking back on the depression that ruined so many peoples lives. He is pouring his heart out recalling all those horrible days of never knowing when the next horrible act would take place due to the poverty. Something you must know nothing about.
Nourishment he's merely talking ...thru his whiskey bottle here. He has written some better stuff...As for you...better in life to debate than to start swearing at people who have ideas outside of your own..and whom you do not know a thing about.....no wonder YOU are depressed...calm down ...stop attacking...reflect on life more.
A negative opinion is always unwelcome. Next time you find yourself somewhere you don't like, just move on with your life. No need to leave a trolling comment that isn't even funny, merely weak. As for the swearing, I meant no disrespect, I was talking thru a bottle.
God bless CHB, I know damn good and well that I'm not the only one he got thru some dark times. Share this great contemporary with all your friends and family. We need more Bukowski no matter what he said 😊