Cling to dawning’s drape, as hails the sun’s
revealing rays, a slow ascent, night is undone.
Wringing in, as rainfall on September flowers
belongs the day, as soaking unseen bowers-
hallowed, hidden dens from branching gables,
place of passion’s secrets –Jana’s cradle.
Then, in reflecting off one lover’s eyes,
light that signal darkness’s demise
screams the sounds, if they were voiced and free,
subsume this moment – come, belong to me.
Of sounds, there seems a widow’s cruse
to knock around, to interfuse.
This rhyming dervish -so accused-
from Albany to Syracuse
or Monterey to Santa Cruz
across the water -if you choose-
but not so far as Betelgeuse.
I do not wish to disabuse
you of your preference -p’s and q’s-
but only that I’m circumfused
with words whose sounds are overused.
******************
a list of words presented themselves…and I just couldn’t stop.
Today would have been Charles Bukowski’s 93rd birthday*. Ever since I started writing poetry, I’ve had a fascination with Bukowski: His writing style, his curmudgeonly persona. He had a very rough childhood, with a strict upbringing, and episodes of bullying. Some say he suffered from dyslexia, which contributed to depression and his subsequent alcoholism. He suffered early rejection in his writing career and even gave it up for a time. Eventually, he returned to writing with a distinct style. He’s not the kind of writer that appeals to everyone…you either love or hate him. His poetry can be very blunt and crass, but at the same time, insightful to the plights and depravity of everyday urban living. I don’t want to glorify the lifestyle**, yet, his ability to condense his own issues into compelling poetry can’t be denied. He rarely made use of metaphor and subtlety, but relied solidly on direct language, anecdotes, and his own experiences.
I don’t want to run the risk of violating someone’s copywrite, so I won’t share any of his poems here. But, I’ll direct you to the Poetry Foundation website as a start if you are interested. And these really only scratch the surface. The man was an incredibly prolific author/poet***.
Because I consider Bukowski influential, I’ve been known to “attempt” mimicking his style (for better or for worse) or at least channel him. I think most poets/writers have an influential style that they sometimes attempt.
***************************
*Bukowski died in 1994 from leukemia.
**Among other things, Bukowski wrote of his numerous affairs, sex with prostitutes, violence, drinking, and gambling.
***Bukowski wrote more than forty books of poetry, prose and novels while living. There have been nine compilations of “new” poetry published since his death.
I see them gathered
-the yellow susans –
day after day
on the hillside;
struggling to meet the morning sun
-petals flung down
as stretched limbs-
thrusting their faces
toward heaven,
at midday
their arms raised
in praise to a merciful deity,
and in evening
– their buds nodding en masse-
attuned to the canons
of their ancestors.
***************
Book Spine Poetry
(upside down) Therapy
April Morning
Rainbow’s End
Killing Time
A Poetry Handbook
90 Minutes in Heaven
Where Good Ideas Come From
Even over the sounds
of thunder, masquerading
as distant drums
across the plain, the flute-sounds
remain longer, as her melody
and timbre
curl with the landscape
that returns
upon awakening
with the downbeat
of each new day.
Taps and Ratamacues 