poetry readings have to be some of the saddest
damned things ever,
the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,
week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,
sweating for applause
they read basically to and for
each other,
they can't find a New York publisher
or one
within miles,
but they read on and on
in the poetry holes of America,
never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be
thin, almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered
in
from nowhere.
I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.
if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else:
a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a jock guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant's fart in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crush,
the mailman telling a dirty joke
anything
anything
but
these.
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Comments
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Ellen Clare
From guest Ellen Clare (contact)
I think you are missing the point. He is being honest when he say give him something. What good are we or how good are we hiding in groups sharing only with our families and friends. -
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True, guest Ellen Clare. He is asking us to give him anything except poetry from people who ONLY move in small circles.
However he is not saying that not ALL the people who attend poetry readings are no good. I have heard wonderful poetry at such sessions as well as utter drivel.
Bukowski himself attended and participated in such sessions.
So don't knock the sessions but don't just limit yourself to them either.
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Are You MissingThe Point?
From guest Ellen Clare (contact)
I think he's saying if we don't take it to the public we are cowards. He is being truthful when he says give me something. Stop hiding. If you are any good bring it into the light. Stop hiding. Don't take no for an answer or move on. -
Whilst I can see the truth of the first half of this poem depicting as it does the poetry groups I have visited, I hope and pray the second half is not true. For that would mean there is no hope for my poetry.
Bukowki is attacking all the poets of his generation with the careless disregard of Napoleon's 'whiff of grapeshot' where I would have prefered him to use the discerning aim of a sniper.
Or perhaps my work is an elephant's fart in a circus tent? I hope not. -
Poetry is a very sad art. Poets are such a sad string of people. We all think we're amazing, whether we admit it or not. We believe we carry the very breath of life. But what is it we really carry? Close to nothing, just words.
I like this poem a lot, as I do with most of Buk's stuff. -
So much better than what we have to read in English.
Edited on Mar 11, 7:52 p.m. because ''.
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