Bukowski is the modern cynic, the modern Diogenes. I’ve never met, or read for that matter, a more bold, cynical, no-fucks-given poet; the romanticists were fueled by their own image, high on the opiate that their life is the epicenter, the most permeating, sublime life there is. But Bukowski dwindled in the darkness, in the slums of poverty; and one needs, as the philosophers say, light to counter darkness; and Bukowski certainly desired the latter, a melancholy, dull, darkness to counteract the attractiveness of his aura. Bukowski’s poems are thus fueled by this intrepid, yet unlived life. Living nine lives, being a vagabond in his middle ages, homeless at times, married multiple times, rumored to be dead; — who can this be but Bukowksi? The unseemly life of a man who made history being himself. Didn’t need a meter to follow him or a crowd but a pen. And though one cannot praise Bukowski for his, say, poetic prose, or use of literary elements — the lack of which I have not yet seen in writers — the experience itself, the stories of traveling up the hill to meet the girl in college, or playing poker at night, closing the blinds and sleeping for days, drinking until mad; — this defined Bukwoski, the witty, eclectic, crude old man with bold opinions about his sullen universe and fate that is prescribed to him.
Bukowski had it hard in life. His father is quoted as having been verbally and physically abusive. Growing up poor in a suburban area in Los Angeles, Bukowski developed bad habits early, often quoting himself to have been a smoker in high school.Yet despite the staunch criticism Bukowksi receive, that his works are not real works of poems, that they do not express anything, for they are bland, stale works that express a hedonistic, lustful old man, the absurdity itself suffices in meaning; for Bukowski himself is but a joker in a poet’s boot; he merely imitates; but it is his experience that makes it all unique; he does not shroud himself in unreliable narrators, selfish rhyme schemes, hidden meaning. The power itself comes from the simplicity, frankness, and tapestry of words of which I believe Bukowski to be the pioneer. The grim, uncanny world of a melancholic man, without a definite man, poor, who chronicles his stories with hookers, drunk men, death, and booze; with love, death, wine, and beer, with it all he makes due and makes into beautiful stories to retail. That is the life of the modern cynic, the Diogenes of the twentieth century who proclaimed Nietszhe, “human, all too human.” Brilliant!
Most, if not all, of Bukowski’s poems are in free verse. No meter. No iambic trimeter, oxymorons, similes, metaphors, or “accentuating tidbits”; dim the world and gaze into the shacks where no one dares to lurk, probe into the mental asylums, bars, and whore houses. A synopsis of Bukowksi’s poems can be summarized thus; one feels sentimentality, the joy in grief, in transposing into the solitude and alienation that only so few knew, and so few knew how to express; to leap beyond the shackles of uncertainty and poverty and continue to express what is dear. Make it make sense, they say, but Bukowksi doesn’t. He desires nothing from his reader but acceptance, accepting the relative suffering that permeates through all, the poor, the rich, and the greats.
Bukowski is a master storyteller. From his adventures with women to his interactions with death himself, it is evident that Bukowski was born with a gift most writers do not self-actualize in themselves. Disagreeing opinions are natural and necessary. But Bukowski does not reconcile with his reader, or ornament his stories with vivacious sceneries, draperies, azure skies, and the perfumes of may. Bukowski’s world is terrifically tangible. The critics call this realism. But Bukowski takes this a step further. To Bukowski, reason did not present itself to obscure the beauty in simplicity. Bukowski speaks unconditionally, without reprieve, and with the hand of death on his shoulder. From Bukowski’s Bluebird to the “loneliness so great one can see it in the hand of the clock,” the opportunity to actualize a world so haunting and unsupposing mounts itself on the reader and sets itself into consciousness. What is this darkness, this world, this imperfect and unfulfilling world that cannot give me anything, and treats men as such? Bukowksi has the answers, embedded within his works.
Style is often said to be the most difficult element to acquire in writing. Most spend years trying to be someone that is not themselves. But Bukowski, as I see it, loved his imperfections; he wanted to convey them in his way because they had been said before, but not through his eye, his keen sensation for the ugly, the terrific, world that is forever at unrest, fighting against forces that are not in our control. We need to run, as Bukowski says, forever, to keep on going, to push past, but we also need luck, to push past our boundaries, or die in the mud, and be forgotten. To be honest, Bukowski doesn’t give the best advice; maybe one should not go through two packs a day, or drink enough liquor that one cannot differ it from gasoline (yes, this is true) but one must amalgamate the political, social, and familial tensions that created Bukowski and thank them for their imperfections. That there is no style or rhythm gives style in itself. I have had a great time reading Bukowski, and I also have had a horrible time. The latter approaches me now, slowly, it creeps up to me, and whispers from my shoulder, as all good pieces of work should do, that the world is dark, and to conceal your darkness is no worse than to ignore yourself. One must accept himself. And that, readers, is a lesson from Bukowski. The shit, the piss, the rubble, the horrible, the magnificent, the loneliness, the workers in mines, the promiscuous women.
Just a message, I have been in college and been busy. I am going to start writing more articles about the intersection between poverty, affliction, loneliness, and writers. I find it a beautiful intersection point and am interested in exploring this relationship. Let me know if you have any suggestions.
