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Charles Bukowski Short Poems

Famous Short Charles Bukowski Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Charles Bukowski. A collection of the all-time best Charles Bukowski short poems


by Charles Bukowski
 it sits outside my window now
like and old woman going to market;
it sits and watches me,
it sweats nevously
through wire and fog and dog-bark
until suddenly
I slam the screen with a newspaper
like slapping at a fly
and you could hear the scream
over this plain city,
and then it left.

the way to end a poem
like this
is to become suddenly
quiet.



by Charles Bukowski
 To give life you must take life,
and as our grief falls flat and hollow
upon the billion-blooded sea
I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed
with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creatures
lengthily dead and rioting against surrounding scenes.
Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow
did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be
young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.
I hated you when it would have taken less courage
to love.

by Charles Bukowski
 shot in the eye 
shot in the brain 
shot in the ass 
shot like a flower in the dance 

amazing how death wins hands down 
amazing how much credence is given to idiot forms of life 

amazing how laughter has been drowned out 
amazing how viciousness is such a constant 

I must soon declare my own war on their war 
I must hold to my last piece of ground 
I must protect the small space I have made that has allowed me life 

my life not their death 
my death not their death...

by Charles Bukowski
 To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room. 
...in the morning
they're out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers... 
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes. 
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985

by Charles Bukowski
 I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train 
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd 
realized 
that.



by Charles Bukowski
 these things that we support most well 
have nothing to do with up, 
and we do with them 
out of boredom or fear or money 
or cracked intelligence; 
our circle and our candle of light 
being small, 
so small we cannot bear it, 
we heave out with Idea 
and lose the Center: 
all wax without the wick, 
and we see names that once meant 
wisdom, 
like signs into ghost towns, 
and only the graves are real.

by Charles Bukowski
 the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them

by Charles Bukowski
 Long walks at night-- 
that's what good for the soul: 
peeking into windows 
watching tired housewives 
trying to fight off 
their beer-maddened husbands.

by Charles Bukowski
 in the winter on my
ceiling my eyes the size of street-
lamps. I have 4 feet like a mouse but
wash my own underwear-bearded and
hungover and a hard-on and no lawyer. I 
have a face like a washrag. I sing
love songs and carry steel. 
I would rather die than cry. I can't
stand hounds can't live without them.
I hang my head against the white
refrigerator and want to scream like
the last weeping of life forever but
I am bigger then the mountains.

by Charles Bukowski
 the words have come and gone,
I sit ill.
the phone rings, the cats sleep.
Linda vacuums.
I am waiting to live,
waiting to die. 
I wish I could ring in some bravery.
it's a lousy fix
but the tree outside doesn't know:
I watch it moving with the wind
in the late afternoon sun. 
there's nothing to declare here,
just a waiting.
each faces it alone. 
Oh, I was once young,
Oh, I was once unbelievably
young! 
from Transit magazine, 1994

by Charles Bukowski
 cimen altinda gecen 225 gunden sonra benden daha cok sey biliyor olmalisin.
kanini emip bitireli epey oldu, artik bir sepetteki kuru bir cubuksun.
bu isler boyle mi oluyor?
bu odada hala ask saatlerinin golgeleri var.
birakip gittiginde asagi yukari herseyi alip gittin.
geceleri beni ben olmaya koymayan kaplanlarin onunde diz cokuyorum.
senin sen olman asla bir daha olmayacak.
kaplanlar beni buldular ama artik umurumda bile degil. 
translated by somebody

Luck  Create an image from this poem
by Charles Bukowski
 once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking
smoking
typing
it was a most 
splendid
miraculous
time
still
is
only now
instead of
moving toward
time
it 
moves toward 
us
makes each word 
drill 
into the
paper
clear
fast
hard
feeding a
closing
space.

by Charles Bukowski
 as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.
from ONTHEBUS - 1992

by Charles Bukowski
 don't undress my love
you might find a mannequin:
don't undress the mannequin 
you might find
my love. 
she's long ago
forgotten me. 
she's trying on a new
hat 
and looks more the 
coquette
than ever.

she is a
child
and a mannequin
and death. 
I can't hate 
that. 
she didn't do
anything 
unusual. 
I only wanted her
to.

by Charles Bukowski
 there is always that space there 
just before they get to us 
that space 
that fine relaxer 
the breather 
while say 
flopping on a bed 
thinking of nothing 
or say 
pouring a glass of water from the 
spigot 
while entranced by 
nothing 

that 
gentle pure 
space 

it's worth 

centuries of 
existence 

say 

just to scratch your neck 
while looking out the window at 
a bare branch 

that space 
there 
before they get to us 
ensures 
that 
when they do 
they won't 
get it all 

ever.

by Charles Bukowski
 sway with me, everything sad --
madmen in stone houses
without doors,
lepers steaming love and song
frogs trying to figure
the sky;
sway with me, sad things --
fingers split on a forge
old age like breakfast shell
used books, used people
used flowers, used love
I need you
I need you
I need you:
it has run away
like a horse or a dog,
dead or lost
or unforgiving.

Finish  Create an image from this poem
by Charles Bukowski
 We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting

by Charles Bukowski
 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.

by Charles Bukowski
 from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.
one flies 
off.
then
another.
one is left,
then
it too
is gone.
my typewriter is 
tombstone 
still.
and I am
reduced to bird
watching.
just thought I'd
let you
know,
fucker.

by Charles Bukowski
 Van Gogh cut off his ear
gave it to a
prostitute
who flung it away in
extreme
disgust.
Van, whores don't want
ears
they want
money.
I guess that's why you were
such a great
painter: you
didn't understand
much
else.

Poetry  Create an image from this poem
by Charles Bukowski
 it
takes
a lot of 
desperation 
dissatisfaction 
and 
disillusion 
to 
write 
a 
few
good
poems. 
it's not
for 
everybody 
either to 
write 
it 
or even to 
read
it.

by Charles Bukowski
 the vultures at the zoo
(all three of the)
sit very quietly in their
caged tree
and below
on the ground
are chunks of rotten meat.
the vultures are over-full.
our taxes have fed them
well.

we move on to the next
cage.
a man is in there
sitting on the ground
eating
his own ****.
i recognize him as
our former mailman.
his favorite expression 
had been:
"have a beautiful day."

that day i did.

by Charles Bukowski
 "They only burn themselves to reach Paradise"
 - Mne. Nhu

original courage is good,
motivation be damned,
and if you say they are trained
to feel no pain,
are they
guarenteed this?
is it still not possible
to die for somebody else?

you sophisticates
who lay back and
make statements of explanation,
I have seen the red rose burning
and this means more.

by Charles Bukowski
 if I suffer at this
typewriter
think how I'd feel
among the lettuce-
pickers of Salinas? 
I think of the men
I've known in
factories
with no way to
get out-
choking while living
choking while laughing
at Bob Hope or Lucille
Ball while 
2 or 3 children beat
tennis balls against 
the wall. 
some suicides are never
recorded.

by Charles Bukowski
 I took my girlfriend to your last poetry reading,
she said.
yes, yes? I asked.
she's young and pretty, she said.
and? I asked.
she hated your
guts.
then she stretched out on the couch
and pulled off her
boots.
I don't have very good legs,
she said.
all right, I thought, I don't have very good
poetry; she doesn't have very good
legs.
scramble two.


Book: Reflection on the Important Things