Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski
I read a fine essay written by a friend of mine, Bukowski
I thought he was a great poet and writer, whether the high
table of the educated literate think, or not because from
where he wrote, the side streets of life, unfamiliar to them.
Many famous writers/poets drink; I think this is because they
have finished writing for the day, they feel empty inside
alcohol salivate the sense of tristesse, meeting friends for
drinks as whisky and conversation flows
Ernest Hemingway was a heavy drinker, which is overlooked
by his admirers, he had been to Paris, the middle-class son
of a doctor; his drinking had charm, the fishing and shooting
When I read Bukowski’s novel the “post office” I remember
opening the book, a rainy afternoon, absorbed by his art
I lost track of time; I followed his journey doing menial tasks
The boredom of having to make a living when all he wanted
to do was to write against the odds; he did write and gave
us, the beauty of his soul.
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