Poetry Readings by Charles Bukowski

The following poem has been sitting on my desk for weeks. I have pushed it from one corner to the next, not knowing whether to burn it or celebrate it. To me, it is startling in its truth (as well as its lack of compassion) and sums up the plight of the artist/poet/writer in America.

 

You may have a totally different take on this. Either way, let me know what you think.

 

 

 

 

Poetry Readings by Charles Bukowski

 

poetry readings have to be some of the saddest

damned things ever,

the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,

week after week, month after month, year

after year,

getting old together,

reading on to tiny gatherings,

still hoping their genius will be

discovered,

making tapes together, discs together,

sweating for applause

they read basically to and for

each other,

they can’t find a New York publisher

or one

within miles,

but they read on and on

in the poetry holes of America,

never daunted,

never considering the possibility that their talent might be

thin, almost invisible,

they read on and on

before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,

their wives, their friends, the other poets

and the handful of idiots who have wandered

in

from nowhere.

 

I am ashamed for them,

I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,

I am ashamed for their lisping egos,

their lack of guts.

 

If these are our creators,

please, please give me something else:

 

a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,

a prelim boy in a four rounder,

a jock guiding his horse through along the

rail,

a bartender on last call,

a waitress pouring me a coffee,

a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,

a dog munching a dry bone,

an elephant’s fart in a circus tent,

a 6 p.m. freeway crash,

the mailman telling a dirty joke

 

anything

anything

but

these.

 

 

Tagged as: artists, Charles Bukowski, poetry readings, poets, writers