Post Thirty-One: Bukowski, lay it on me.

Lindsey has been sending me poetry. I sincerely enjoy it. I don't really know how to express how much I enjoy it to her. Receiving poetry, from anyone, or receiving songs, or receiving book suggestions, or receiving fun facts, or receiving new words, all of those things are like receiving the most beautiful, invaluable gifts that can ever be given. Better than birthdays or Christmas morning. Because there's something a little deeper about wanting to share intangible things you love with someone than there is about wanting to buy them gifts. (Not that I don't like gifts too!)

Anyhow, I wanted to repost some of them that I truly reacted to. Whether the reactions were sadness, quiet laughter, smiling, doesn't matter, they elicited reactions. The following poems evoked in me some empathy in one way or another. And maybe they say for me things I'm not good at putting into words as well.

"Barfly" by Charles Bukowski

Jane, who has been dead for 31 years,
never could have
imagined that I would write a screenplay of our drinking
days together
and
that it would be made into a movie
and
that a beautiful movie star would play her
part.

I can hear Jane now: “A beautiful movie star? oh,
for Christ’s sake!”

Jane, that’s show biz, so go back to sleep, dear, because
no matter how hard they tried they
just couldn’t find anybody exactly like
you.

and neither can
I.


"Damages" by Ruby Rahman

There are some sorrows, some damages, for which
there is no compensation;
you are that irreparable loss of mine.
Where you cast your glance
light of the conjoining stars dances
along the great longitude;
the courage to dream blooms in the blood
and the difficult habit of staying alive,
nurtured from the moment of birth,
crumbles like a conch-shell dust.
You are that inconsolable sorrow of mine
that tears apart this neat and tidy day-to-day existence.
Someday this present time
will slip out of my grasp
like a fisherman missing on the high seas.
The still lighthouse's flickering beam of light
will tremble only on the vast deep,
dark waters of the sea-- a wounded wind;
and there will go on lying my boundless time--
my destiny!

There are some sorrows, some calamities--
that can never, from any quarter, be compensated for.

"Dust" by Dorianne Laux

Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor--
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes--
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.

"The Miracle is the Shortest Time" by Charles Bukowski
you know
it was very good
it was
better than
anything

it was like
something
we could
pick up
hold
look at
and then laugh
about.

we were on the
moon
we were in the
god damned moon,
we had it

we were in the garden
we were in the
endless pit

never such a place
as that

it was deep
and
it was light
and
it was high

it got so near
to insanity
we laughed so
hard

your laughter
and
mine

I remember when
your eyes
said love
loudly

now
as these walls
so quietly
shift

"The Embrace" By Mark Doty

You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.

I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You'd been out-- at work maybe? --
having a good day, almost energetic.

We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative

by your face, the physical fact of your face:
inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.
Why so difficult, remembering the actual look
of you? Without a photograph, without strain?

So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,
your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth
and clarity of you-- warm brown tea-- we held
each other for the time the dream allowed.

Bless you. You came back, so I could see you
once more, plainly, so I could rest against you
without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
without thinking you were alive again.

And to head off this poetry, may I introduce WhiteSnake. I never believed I could relate to a man who calls himself "WhiteSnake" but here I am, totally manifesting this song.
Here I Go Again - WhiteSnake