at the track today,
Father's Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
and each contained a
little surprise.
most of the men seemed
between 30 and 55,
going to fat,
many of them in walking
shorts,
they had gone stale in
life,
flattened out….
in fact, damn it, they
aren't even worth writing
about!
why am I doing
this?
these don't even
deserve a death bed,
these little walking
whales,
only there are so
many of
them,
in the urinals,
in the food lines,
they have managed to
survive
in a most limited
sense
but when you see
so many of them
like that,
there and not there,
breathing, farting,
commenting,
waiting for a thunder
that will not arrive,
waiting for the charging
white horse of
Glory,
waiting for the lovely
female that is not
there,
waiting to WIN,
waiting for the great
dream to
engulf them
but they do nothing,
they clomp in their
sandals,
gnaw at hot dogs
dog style,
gulping at the
meat,
they complain about
losing,
blame the jocks,
drink green
beer,
the parking lot is
jammed with their
unpaid for
cars,
the jocks mount
again for another
race,
the men press
toward the betting
windows
mesmerized,
fathers and non-fathers
Monday is waiting
for them,
this is the last
big lark.
and the horses are
totally
beautiful.
it is shocking how
beautiful they
are
at that time,
at that place,
their life shines
through;
miracles happen,
even in
hell.
I decide to stay for
one more
race.
from Transit magazine, 1994
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Comments
1 - 11 of 11
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Vintage Bukowski. And an accurate observence of those around him though I think this poem is mostly about the horses and him doing what he loved. The rest is just a side dish.
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I wasn't crazy about this poem, probably because it seemed depressing to me, and without the sense of humor that he so often puts into his poems.
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I really like it. Those fat bastards disgust me.
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I had never heard of Charles Bukowski until a reader told me one of my poems had a similiarity to him, so yes it happens.
A lot of people simply admire him and want to become as blunt and eloquent as him, but I don't see much of a poet if he's simply milking words. A poem is one thing, an original poem is another. I can't remember the last time I read someone with a style all his own, poetry that resembles nothing, except the writer. Bukowski was just that. Neruda introduced readers to wooden and steel sonnets, that's what made him one of the most influential poets of the twentieth century. His earthly language can be compared to every other artform and still has the power to engulf readers.
Edited on Apr 29, 7:46 because 'I can't spell'. -
What if they just so happen to write in a similar manner as Bukowski yet have never read him before? I wrote in similar ways to Bukowski's forms etc., way before I even heard of him.
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actually, every one - absolutely everyone wants to write like him now a days. I've encounter quite a few poets in AP who mimic him. A few of them do a pretty decent job, but before I'm finished reading their work I know for certain that person is aiming for Buk's style.
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Wow...poetry like this makes me believe that no one - absolutely no one -- can write like Bukowski. He is in a class all his own.
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such a straight shooter he was. . .
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Just brilliant...this man is truly of the poet gods' dazzling treasures...and yes, I too am delighted to see his works posted here because it's just amazing to read this man's work.
Edited on Dec 30, 5:15 p.m. because 'I have a potty mouth...LOL'. -
Well, I did not find this to be dryer than , say, "Post Office". Another kind of biting piece and, yes, harsh. I liked it, though. It was truly descriptive. I just love Bukowski's attitude and his tone. I think I could tell his work without his name attached. A truly distinctive voice. I have always appreciated his perspective. His poetry and his novels are always worth reading, always rntertaining, and often surprising. I am glad to see his work posted here.
Scott -
Harsh and dryer than most Bukowski...Imagine that !!!
The end gets ugly , I guess...
Great...
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