Charles Bukowski: Pleasures of the damned
He was a poet yet entirely against sentimentality. His work had no rhythm, no rhyme, nothing other than the falling arrangement of lines that announced itself as a poem. He disturbed no heavens as poets in throngs of romance often do, but brought down the angels and offered them a drink. A lot of his work feels like journal entries of a dirty old man. And yet there is poetry.
Why school made us hate poetry
We all have dredged through thee’s and thou’s at school and been asked to dissect the impenetrable verses, and almost all of us have come out the other side with a mild disorientation and a great need to get away from the rhyme scheme.
The language seemed so distant, so foreign, even when poets were talking about taking an evening stroll, especially when they insisted on taking winding linguistic roads to a simple sentiment. The musings of the yesteryear appeared weightless against the backdrop of the concrete jungle, made in China, dog-eats-dog life of the present. No poets in the curriculum spoke to us when comfort was needed. As it is always needed.
Discovering the genius of the crowd
“There is enough treachery, hatred, violence, and absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given “day”— genius of the crowd, Charles Bukowski.
Few years back, strolling through YouTube, I came upon a poem, genius of the crowd by Charles Bukowski, and I was surprised that truth and emotions could be painted with such simplicity and clarity; that a poem can be born of everyday musings. That one could just feel a poem like a prayer and not be held accountable for any explanation. For the first time, I was in love with poetry.
Pleasures of the Damned: Voice for the Forsaken
Bukowski was born with a torn shoe: abused at home, bullied at school. when he tried with his writing, rejected for decades by the literary world.
He was born with a torn shoe and never got a pair regardless of how much he tried. All of which deigned his writing style. A style devoid of fluff and meanderings. He never reminisced on friends, lovers, or flowers—at least not in the way most poets do; he talked of sidewalks, betrayals, bars, and prisons. His poetry was that of the forsaken: the lonely postman, the minimum-wage nurse, and the blue-collar labourer. The ones fallen through the crack of society, and regardless of how much they tried, never receiving a break in life. Just pleasures of the damned.
"Don't Try": The Ultimate Lesson for a Fake World
Do not try. The words are imprinted on the gravestone where the poet now rests with a perfect laugh. a man who was himself in a world that tries to mold us a certain way with no guarantee of acceptance. The words become more relevant today, where fakery is a daily profession, imitation a norm, and artificial second nature. And no expression with a human touch.
