The ​Pleasures of the Damned 4 csillagozás

Poems 1951–1993
Charles Bukowski: The Pleasures of the Damned Charles Bukowski: The Pleasures of the Damned

To ​his legions of fans, Charles Bukowski was—and remains—the quintessential counterculture icon. A hard-drinking wild man of literature and a stubborn outsider to the poetry world, he wrote unflinchingly about booze, work, and women, in raw, street-tough poems whose truth has struck a chord with generations of readers.

Edited by John Martin, the legendary publisher of Black Sparrow Press and a close friend of Bukowski's, The Pleasures of the Damned is a selection of the best works from Bukowski's long poetic career, including the last of his never-before-collected poems. Celebrating the full range of the poet's extra-ordinary and surprising sensibility, and his uncompromising linguistic brilliance, these poems cover a rich lifetime of experiences and speak to Bukowski's „immense intelligence, the caring heart that saw through the sham of our pretenses and had pity on our human condition” (The New York Quarterly). The Pleasures of the Damned is an astonishing poetic… (tovább)

Eredeti megjelenés éve: 2007

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Ecco, New York, 2007
558 oldal · ISBN: 9780061228445
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Canongate, Edinburgh, 2007
506 oldal · puhatáblás · ISBN: 9781847675491

Enciklopédia 4


Kedvencelte 1

Várólistára tette 2

Kívánságlistára tette 2


Népszerű idézetek

mj_42>!

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can never categorize you

No leaders, please

mj_42>!

we finally found the tunnel at the end of the light

Schoolyards of forever

ms_moly>!

No leaders, please

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
don’t swim in the same slough.
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself
and
stay out of the clutches of mediocrity.

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can
never
categorize you.

reinvigorate yourself and
accept what is
but only on the terms that you have invented
and reinvented.

be self-taught.

and reinvent your life because you must;
it is your life and
its history
and the present
belong only to
you.

No leaders, please

ms_moly>!

For Jane

225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.

For Jane

ms_moly>!

oh yes

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.

Oh, yes

mj_42>!

just as the sun went down
every day
there was a man in a nearby ward
he’d start hollering for his friend Joe.
JOE! he’d holler, OH JOE! JOE!…!
COME GET ME, JOE!

Joe never came by.
I’ve never heard such mournful
sounds.

Joe was probably working off a
piece of ass or
attempting to solve a crossword puzzle.

Now

mj_42>!

„Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?”
„O, yeah, yeah…” pissing in my pajamas,
slop drooling out of
my mouth.

The last days of the suicide kid

mj_42>!

I had a library card and I checked books in and out large stacks of them always taking the limit allowed,” Bukowski wrote of the library where he discovered John Fante, the writer he would grow to emulate. “Aldous Huxley, D. H. Lawrence, e.e. cummings, Conrad Aiken, Fyodor Dos, Dos Passos, Turgenev, Gorky, H.D., Freddie Nietzsche, Art Schopenhauer, Steinbeck, Hemingway, and so forth…I always expected the librarian to say, "you have good taste, young man…but the old fried and wasted bitch didn't even know who she was let alone me…

The Burning of the Dream

Kapcsolódó szócikkek: Aldous Huxley · Conrad Aiken · Friedrich Nietzsche · John Fante
ms_moly>!

a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter …
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
this poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows …

a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world …

A poem is a city

ms_moly>!

Bluebird

There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out…
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.

then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?"

Bluebird


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Michael Jackson: Dancing the Dream
Jim Morrison: Szeretlek és gyűlöllek
Allen Ginsberg: Howl and Other Poems
Sylvia Plath: Collected Poems
William Faulkner: Early Prose and Poetry
Sylvia Plath: Ariel: The Restored Edition
Frank O'Hara: Lunch Poems
Anne Sexton: Love Poems
Robert Lowell: Collected Poems
Wallace Stevens: The Collected Poems