I just read some of Charles Bukowski's poetry.
Some words on his own life gave me heartache,
reminded my own dark history.
His poetry--invited me to peek through his misery; deep mistery.
Though long gone, his colorful writings can still make
people see life through his eyes
and search their own truths despite maddening lies.
I am now returning from a long hiatus to poetry.
The problem with it is that besides being dynamic:
it has free form; doesn't have to rhyme; filled with rhetoric,
boundless, overflowing poignant images--
making some poems incomprehensible in first reading,
leaving you in wonder,
splitting your consciousness asunder.
The problem with poetry is that:
the poet's life becomes his great masterpiece--
where you can break all rules and make your own.
Its problem then becomes its beauty...
just like Bukowski's.
[Written: 12:40PM 27JUN08, Friday @ Shell CSC-PH's Office 38th/F RCBC Plaza Tower 2, Makati City Philippines]