Monday, February 7, 2011
BUKOWSKI'S SECRET PACT
I came home tonight after screenwriting class and bunkered down. The Canadian Windstorm is freezing the hell out of every lonely pidgeon that is camped out on my snow covered balcony. I feel for these brave but annoying little birds. They get no respect.
I decided to finish watching the documentary that I had started earlier in the day on Charles Bukowski. It is called Born Into This.
Very good, I have much to say about this man, but I will give the link to the film online instead:
How he was so prolific in his writings over the years overcoming his poverty and alcoholism and health problems, it was unbelievable. Some of the archival footage of Bukowski or "HANK" is going to be studied for generations to come I am sure.
They film ends with his last wife talking lovingly about the day he passed on, and then they have an audio of him reciting a poem that reminds me of somebody quite special to me.
It certainly took my mind off of all of the deep thoughts I have been weighing in my mind the last couple of days.... It's called Bluebird. Here it is:
Charles Bukowski-Bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sakes in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do you ?
wow......I don't think Mr Bukowski had much use for classes in writing.
Instead of writing...."I think I have lost her forever"he would write........."I am fucking dead to her, no music and no revival"
My example.
He just did it. So RAW and so RIGHT.Rick
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