Come On In!. Charles BukowskiЧитать онлайн книгу.
their
problems.
of course, there are other
problems:
those writers of poems
that sound like poems
think that they then must
go around
reading them
to other people.
this, they say, is done
for status and recognition
(they are careful
not to mention
vanity
or the need for
instantaneous
approbation
from some
sparse, addled
crowd).
the best poems
it seems to me
are written out of
an ultimate
need.
and once the poem is
written,
the only need
after that
is to write
another.
and the silence
of the printed page
is the
best response
to a finished
work.
in decades past
I once warned
some poet-friends
of mine
about the masturbatory
nature of poetry readings
done just
for the applause of
a handful of
idiots.
“isolate yourself and
do your work and if you
must mix, then do it
with those who
have no interest at all
in what you consider
so
important.”
such anger,
such a self-righteous
response
did I receive then
from my poet-friends
that it seemed to me
that I had exactly
proved my
point.
after that,
we all drifted
apart.
and that solved just
one of my
problems
and I suppose
just one of
theirs.
he is behind me,
talking to somebody:
“well, I like the 5 horse, he closed well last
time, I like a horse who can close.
but you know, you gotta kinda consider
the 4 and the 12.
the 4 needed his last race and look at
him, he’s reading 40-to-1 now.
the 12’s got a chance too.
and look at the 9, he looks really good,
really got a shine to his skin.
then too, you also gotta consider the 7 …”
every now and then I consider murdering
somebody, it just flashes in my mind for a
moment, then I dismiss it and rightfully
so.
I considered murdering the man who
belonged to the voice I heard,
then I worked on dismissing the thought.
and to make sure, I changed my seat,
I moved far down to my left,
I found a seat between a woman wearing a
sun shade and a young man violently
chewing on a mouthful of
gum.
then I felt
better.
a famished orphan sits somewhere in the mind
a heavyweight fighter called Young Stribling
was killed in the ring
so long ago
that I am certain
that I am the only one remembering him
tonight.
I am thinking of nobody else.
I sit here in this room and stare at the
lamp
and I think,
Stribling, Stribling.
outside
the starved palms continue to
decay
while in here
I remember and
watch a cigarette lighter,
an empty glass and a
wristwatch propped delicately on its
side.
Stribling.
son-of-a-bitch,
what causes me to think
about things like this?
I really don’t need to know,
yet I wonder.
dear sir:
thank you for your manuscript
but this is to inform you
that I have no special influence
with any editor or publisher
and if I did
I would never dream of telling
them who or what
to publish.
I myself have never mailed any
of my work to anybody but
an editor or a publisher.
despite the fact that
my