Charles Bukowski

Discussion of other topics not necessarily Keats or poetry-related, i.e. other authors, literature, film, music, the arts etc.

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Charles Bukowski

Postby marwood » Mon Feb 01, 2010 5:53 pm

I received a book of of poetry by this chap for Christmas,
I had never heard of him :oops: It's written in free verse.
The subject matter seems to be about booze
Whores, Boarding houses, horse racing, the laureate of low life,
The Walt Whitman of Los Angeles, are some of the descriptions
on the back of the book. I just wondered what you folks from the states think.
Some of it is quite funny/sad, anyway, look forward to your thoughts.

Take care,
Marwood.
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen.
marwood
At Parnassus' foot
 
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Re: Charles Bukowski

Postby Sid13 » Wed Feb 03, 2010 10:09 pm

I've never read any of Bukowski's poetry, but I started (and never finished) two of his novels, Post Office and Ham on Rye. He has a loud cult following, but I find his stuff to be just second hand and second rate Kerouac and Burroughs imitations.
Sid13
 
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Re: Charles Bukowski

Postby Nonedo » Mon Feb 08, 2010 6:46 pm

Thank God! When I noticed this topic, I thought you guys are ones of those who like this modern trash that is idolised and I was about to have a heart attack.

Although he is not as bad as I have said, he is truly not "The God of poetry" as thease kids call him.

I suggest (though I doubt there are much translations of him, or if they are any good) Daniil Kharms
Here is medicore translation:

Blue notebook No. 10

There was a red-headed man who had no eyes and ears. He had no hair, so he was called red-headed only conditionally.
He could not speak, since he did not have a mouth. He also had no nose.
He did not have even arms and legs. And he had no stomach, and he had no spine, and he had no backbone, and he had no innards.
He had nothing! So it is not clear whom are we speaking about.
And it would be better if we do not speak about him anymore.
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
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