@@jacehendrix3194 - There are many writers who can't read their own stuff with any kind of meaning or substance. He was one of the few. Is that easier to understand? Do you need everything explained Jace?
Like he'll go from dismal in his tone, almost a complacent, "fuck it" sort of way, then go to suddenly optimistic especially when he gets to the toast and coffee part 😂
Bukowski was a modern day poet who’s words sound like a gravel road under your minds tires. True and rough and never letting you have complete control of where your going but just enough to lead you back to the hard road.Reality.
Just discovered this guy a couple months ago. He's rather good. Sorta spooky that he just showed up on my UA-cam feed one day. These algorithms the tech folks use must be very sophisticated that they would know what kind of poetry I would like, even though I read very little poetry.
Bukowski cracks me up. Just imagine Charles B. and J. Kerouac sitting down and having a poetic drink of hard liquor together. Poetry and verbal lotion.
@Greg Walker in admiration maybe. he has a short piece about a time when he met kerouac and cassady. he was amazed by them, speaks about them very highly and wrote that he felt blessed to be in their company. he recounts going on a drive with neil and being amazed by his driving skills. talking with jack. then he got too drunk and passed out. you can find the piece in his collected newspaper columns, 'notes of a dirty old man'. it's good
One of his best. Many memorable lines and phrases. His letter writing was also great ( I ought to know I had a correspondence with Bukowski in the late 70s..an exchange of about 30 letters. Al
@@user-we6wi3rn1l Sounds like you don’t believe me? In addition, And at one time in the late 70s I had the largest Bukowski collection of books, in private hands including the rarest target offprint ( 1 of only 4 copie who William Corrington sold to me his Buk signed copy that read “ William here’s a copy for you bereavement” for $20 ( an unsigned copy recently sold on eBay for &28,000 .). Due to a breakup with a girlfriend and lack of finances , I regretfully sold my collection in 1981 to a dealer ( Joseph the provider) for “15,000 today’s replacement value $300,000!! OUCH! Read the intro “ confessions of a Bukowski Collector” from my book “ Charles Bukowski “ A comprehensive checklist and price guide to his books, chapbooks , etc -Al
"Henry Chinaski" continues to destroy me - as many times I think I'm a pretty good writer, he comes along & knocks my feet out from under me. I do sincerely believe he would've listened to me, we'd share a btl of wine & after I was done, he'd say "well, how did you walk thru the fire?"
We have everything and we have nothing And some men do it in churches And some men do it by tearing butterflies In half And some men do it in Palm Springs Laying it into butterblondes With Cadillac souls Cadillacs and butterflies Nothing and everything, The face melting down to the last puff In a cellar in Corpus Christi. There's something for the touts, the nuns, The grocery clerks and you . . . Something at 8 a.m., something in the library Something in the river, Everything and nothing. In the slaughterhouse it comes running along The ceiling on a hook, and you swing it - One Two Three And then you've got it, $200 worth of dead Meat, its bones against your bones Something and nothing. It's always early enough to die and It's always too late, And the drill of blood in the basin white It tells you nothing at all And the gravediggers playing poker over 5 a.m. coffee, waiting for the grass To dismiss the frost . . . They tell you nothing at all. We have everything and we have nothing - Days with glass edges and the impossible stink Of river moss - worse than shit; Checkerboard days of moves and countermoves, Fagged interest, with as much sense in defeat as In victory; slow days like mules Humping it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed Up a road where a madman sits waiting among Bluejays and wrens netted in and sucked a flaky Grey. Good days too of wine and shouting, fights In alleys, fat legs of women striving around Your bowels buried in moans, The signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground Telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves That robbed you. Days when children say funny and brilliant things Like savages trying to send you a message through Their bodies while their bodies are still Alive enough to transmit and feel and run up And down without locks and paychecks and Ideals and possessions and beetle-like Opinions. Days when you can cry all day long in A green room with the door locked, days When you can laugh at the breadman Because his legs are too long, days Of looking at hedges . . . And nothing, and nothing, the days of The bosses, yellow men With bad breath and big feet, men Who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk As if melody had never been invented, men Who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and Profit, men with expensive wives they possess Like 60 acres of ground to be drilled Or shown-off or to be walled away from The incompetent, men who'd kill you Because they're crazy and justify it because It's the law, men who stand in front of Windows 30 feet wide and see nothing, Men with luxury yachts who can sail around The world and yet never get out of their vest Pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men Like slugs, and not as good . . . And nothing, getting your last paycheck At a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an Aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a Barbershop, at a job you didn't want Anyway. Income tax, sickness, servility, broken Arms, broken heads - all the stuffing Come out like an old pillow.
People who live with nature everythings are great without prize tags End of the day we are so happy and. excited to go out watch opera and that also free of charge Sunday we went to Paul didn't pay any had coffee and cake Then we went to museum didn't pay any. Isn't that so nice fine No worry of Big Bill But ku didn't know anything Nothing is got to do with nature or simple way Going to expensive shops and buying high prise was so great Perhaps we are peasants Always we had pennies in our volet No mighty bugs
i love this poem. its beautiful and thought provoking, but the fact that he reads his poems like he could give a shit less about them makes me wish someone else would recite them instead.
Katherine Land. Sorry it means you don’t know/ or understand this poet, no other reader could EVER do his work justice! He speaks the dark truth... his tones Matter, I promise... listen again, without judgment , it is the purest, freeist , most honest of ANY poetry , ever... I truly believe thi! Cause most poets equally as real, are long ago dead! He was ahead of his time! And simply content, observing , real life... not polished , fake side of life! He is not!... exactly why most people will never understand him, or ever even try! .. & that my darling, makes me , as a human, so so , much sadder than , “ the prettier/ polished “ version of HIS truth! ( our societies truth!) 🙏❤️🙏 all the best, ( sorry first time I felt to write on UA-cam! All groovy tho!👌😶👍
I love Bukowski but how can this be called poetry ? For us in Europe this kind of writing is not even close to call it poetry. Not even one rime. What is the difference between what he writes and short novel or something? Why is it called poetry ?
I feel like I'm a tourist in the world he lived in. Except I also live here, he just saw layers deeper than I do.
Charles Bukowski is the greatest author of the 20th century hands down
Like medicine...it slides down like honey, an elixir of truth
I figure if Beckett could win the Nobel, this man certain should get a posthumous bid.
Charles even reads the words with the necessary tone required to give the words that added meaning and sincerity.
That's what the "author" can do for you
How else would he read what he wrote? He isn't doing this against his will.
@@jacehendrix3194 - There are many writers who can't read their own stuff with any kind of meaning or substance. He was one of the few. Is that easier to understand?
Do you need everything explained Jace?
Like he'll go from dismal in his tone, almost a complacent, "fuck it" sort of way, then go to suddenly optimistic especially when he gets to the toast and coffee part 😂
"Find what you love,
and let it kill you."
~ Charles Bukowski
Kinky Friedman said that
Bukowski was a modern day poet who’s words sound like a gravel road under your minds tires.
True and rough and never letting you have complete control of where your going but just enough to lead you back to the hard road.Reality.
wow this comment is dope.
the rhythm of his voice clears my head
This is my favorite poem, it moves me in a way I can’t explain
Whatever "it" is, this man had it.
Depression? Lol
Dann right, he had it.
The talent, understanding and the ability to pur the hard work into it to become a great poet !
Please think a bit more before you write a comment, thank you
he was an artist that's all ;)
@@albanyfaulk9566 shut up beach. Do yr own reseatch
Best poetry ever
tom waits owes him everything
I love the way he reads!
Was so amazed when i first read this. One of his best.
it takes courage patience and love to find the Zen in this, but it's there.
Just discovered this guy a couple months ago. He's rather good. Sorta spooky that he just showed up on my UA-cam feed one day. These algorithms the tech folks use must be very sophisticated that they would know what kind of poetry I would like, even though I read very little poetry.
The zen is there Indeed. It makes me laugh.
The best reading of this by a long shot. Perfection.
Easily in my top 5 of his poems, very reflective, raw and honest. 🕊️
I like his shorter stuff better. I hardly ever run out of cigarettes. I don't like what it's like not to smoke.
So smoke and smoke slow
Words can not express the beauty in the mind of this "dirty old man", so I shall not even try.
"Don't try." - Charles Bukowski
posthumous Nobel Prize in literature.
Bob Dylan doesn't come close to this.
Bob Dylan and Charles Bukowski. My heroes.
: "a grocery clerk" and the tone and voice is Col. Kurtz
Listening to this poem makes you a better person :)
Thank u for sharing this content ✌🏻
Bukowski cracks me up. Just imagine Charles B. and J. Kerouac sitting down and having a poetic drink of hard liquor together. Poetry and verbal lotion.
@Greg Walker in admiration maybe. he has a short piece about a time when he met kerouac and cassady. he was amazed by them, speaks about them very highly and wrote that he felt blessed to be in their company. he recounts going on a drive with neil and being amazed by his driving skills. talking with jack. then he got too drunk and passed out. you can find the piece in his collected newspaper columns, 'notes of a dirty old man'. it's good
One of his best. Many memorable lines and phrases.
His letter writing was also great ( I ought to know I had a correspondence with Bukowski in the late 70s..an exchange of about 30 letters.
Al
@@user-we6wi3rn1l
Sounds like you don’t believe me? In addition, And at one time in the late 70s I had the largest Bukowski collection of books, in private hands including the rarest target offprint ( 1 of only 4 copie who William Corrington sold to me his Buk signed copy that read “ William here’s a copy for you bereavement” for
$20 ( an unsigned copy recently sold on eBay for &28,000 .). Due to a breakup with a girlfriend and lack of finances , I regretfully sold my collection in 1981 to a dealer ( Joseph the provider) for “15,000 today’s replacement value $300,000!!
OUCH!
Read the intro “ confessions of a Bukowski Collector” from my book “ Charles Bukowski “ A comprehensive checklist and price guide to his books, chapbooks , etc
-Al
That about sums it up
can be found in "Penguin Modern Poets 13" which he shares with two other poets, Lamantia and Norse.
empathy at its best ;)
i had to prove i could so i did. my climax was mediocre and bitter sweet. i came to "boxes of tissue paper"
Brilliant, thanks for the upload.
Beautiful
"Henry Chinaski" continues to destroy me - as many times I think I'm a pretty good writer, he comes along & knocks my feet out from under me. I do sincerely believe he would've listened to me, we'd share a btl of wine & after I was done, he'd say "well, how did you walk thru the fire?"
. . . Thank-You very much for the upload & for the Link to C*B Poetry. Happy 2020 to You!
Perfect !
Bukowski for Pope.
I am from Corpus Christi, wonder if he meant the city?
🐐♾👊
you just don't get it
03:58
that man in the back
Where is it taken from ? Is there a long version of this lecture?
@SISYPHUSECC111
Can't paste the link, but just type "Bukowski" in google. it is a nice Pic.
He'd surely love this comment
We have everything and we have nothing
And some men do it in churches
And some men do it by tearing butterflies
In half
And some men do it in Palm Springs
Laying it into butterblondes
With Cadillac souls
Cadillacs and butterflies
Nothing and everything,
The face melting down to the last puff
In a cellar in Corpus Christi.
There's something for the touts, the nuns,
The grocery clerks and you . . .
Something at 8 a.m., something in the library
Something in the river,
Everything and nothing.
In the slaughterhouse it comes running along
The ceiling on a hook, and you swing it -
One
Two
Three
And then you've got it, $200 worth of dead
Meat, its bones against your bones
Something and nothing.
It's always early enough to die and
It's always too late,
And the drill of blood in the basin white
It tells you nothing at all
And the gravediggers playing poker over
5 a.m. coffee, waiting for the grass
To dismiss the frost . . .
They tell you nothing at all.
We have everything and we have nothing -
Days with glass edges and the impossible stink
Of river moss - worse than shit;
Checkerboard days of moves and countermoves,
Fagged interest, with as much sense in defeat as
In victory; slow days like mules
Humping it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed
Up a road where a madman sits waiting among
Bluejays and wrens netted in and sucked a flaky
Grey.
Good days too of wine and shouting, fights
In alleys, fat legs of women striving around
Your bowels buried in moans,
The signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering
Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground
Telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves
That robbed you.
Days when children say funny and brilliant things
Like savages trying to send you a message through
Their bodies while their bodies are still
Alive enough to transmit and feel and run up
And down without locks and paychecks and
Ideals and possessions and beetle-like
Opinions.
Days when you can cry all day long in
A green room with the door locked, days
When you can laugh at the breadman
Because his legs are too long, days
Of looking at hedges . . .
And nothing, and nothing, the days of
The bosses, yellow men
With bad breath and big feet, men
Who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk
As if melody had never been invented, men
Who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and
Profit, men with expensive wives they possess
Like 60 acres of ground to be drilled
Or shown-off or to be walled away from
The incompetent, men who'd kill you
Because they're crazy and justify it because
It's the law, men who stand in front of
Windows 30 feet wide and see nothing,
Men with luxury yachts who can sail around
The world and yet never get out of their vest
Pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men
Like slugs, and not as good . . .
And nothing, getting your last paycheck
At a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an
Aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a
Barbershop, at a job you didn't want
Anyway.
Income tax, sickness, servility, broken
Arms, broken heads - all the stuffing
Come out like an old pillow.
This is absolutely disgusting!
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty
People who live with nature
everythings are great
without prize tags
End of the day we are
so happy and. excited
to go out watch opera
and that also free of
charge
Sunday we went to Paul
didn't pay any had coffee
and cake
Then we went to museum
didn't pay any.
Isn't that so nice fine
No worry of Big Bill
But ku didn't know
anything
Nothing is got to do
with nature or simple
way
Going to expensive
shops and buying high
prise was so great
Perhaps we are
peasants
Always we had pennies
in our volet
No mighty bugs
Horrible, but not bad.
I am not a Bukowski fan boy but I will defend this. It is not bad.
Art is sometimes
Andrew 6:52
Jojojojojo. LOL.
Beware of posthumous publications of buk. It's a mangled distorted version of him.
fray you don't know shit. Go back to comfortable life.
i love this poem. its beautiful and thought provoking, but the fact that he reads his poems like he could give a shit less about them makes me wish someone else would recite them instead.
TheKickasskatie . that's his formula way of reciting his poems.
He is being his, own identity.
Poetry and poems is understood best by the poet.
Katherine Land. Sorry it means you don’t know/ or understand this poet, no other reader could EVER do his work justice! He speaks the dark truth... his tones Matter, I promise... listen again, without judgment , it is the purest, freeist , most honest of ANY poetry , ever... I truly believe thi! Cause most poets equally as real, are long ago dead! He was ahead of his time! And simply content, observing , real life... not polished , fake side of life! He is not!... exactly why most people will never understand him, or ever even try! .. & that my darling, makes me , as a human, so so , much sadder than , “ the prettier/ polished “ version of HIS truth! ( our societies truth!) 🙏❤️🙏 all the best, ( sorry first time I felt to write on UA-cam! All groovy tho!👌😶👍
his reading is great and you don't understand.
@Robert fray what
I love Bukowski but how can this be called poetry ? For us in Europe this kind of writing is not even close to call it poetry. Not even one rime. What is the difference between what he writes and short novel or something? Why is it called poetry ?
His points rhyme where his words need not
Rhyming is very obsolete
Poetry is the bridge between the mundane and the divine, if rhyme is your footscale, you best stay on this side, you're obviously out of your depth
Explains a lot.
@@billmyers991 your message to me is poetry. You should publish everything you say and call it poetry. Who can say that is not ?