Poets find inspiration in
Likewise Nazim Hikmet,
Dickenson, Bishop, Doty,
and the barstool bard,
“To The Whore Who
Took My Poems,” and
said, “opera sickened me.”
A romantic, Hank was,
by some accounting,
a perv, drunk, dreamer,
a dirty old man
(he claimed not)—a lover
of women and classical
Buk’s been saluted by
U2, Red Hot Chili Peppers,
Nirvana, Bush, the Cars,
and Concrete Blonde.
of being mused by
and his oeuvre.
Look both ways for the sin of admiring the imperfect,
the toil of the briar patch, the desire for love and passion.
Mind the gaps lest we stumble into the First Self-righteous Church.
Today’s one-thirtieth of NaPo prompts challenged me to write a poem that uses repetition. I may repeat a sound, word, phrase, image, or any combination. I chose a name. (Note: published one day late because someone forgot to click on publish.)
When Nothing Else Can
Maybe Bukowski was right.
We are strange, we of the people.
Is someone’s world better
when we’re not in it?
Bukowski’s is gone.
Bukowski had a point
about hate’s self-sufficiency,
better to not care at all if love
needs so much help. Gratuitous
masturbation of the psyche
is all about Bukowski.
Bukowski was right when he said,
the world is full of boring, identical,
mindless people. They run from the
rain but revel in tubs of bubbles and water.
Where’s the glory here? said Bukowski.
Bukowski didn’t tell me to find what I love
and let it kill me, but I blame it on Bukowski anyway.
There is a loneliness in this world, wrote Bukowski.
Just drink more beer, more and more beer, now
that’s really Bukowski!
I think Bukowski was right when Hank said that
sissies have hard lives. And most important for me,
Bukowski said, nothing can save you except writing,
and equally important, a poem knows when to stop.
I think what Bukowski said is nuts, but also too true,
so it stops, but this is not the end of this Bukowski bit.
Look both ways when sampling the sweet and the sour.
Mind the gaps for clues of generations.
Never heard of Bukowski.
Frost, Yeats, Whitman,
certainly Poe. Those guys;
and Dickenson, Browning,
later Plath and Angelou.
Mary Oliver, too. New and youngs
like Canuck Chica, Kaur.
Gone two decades plus six, old Hank,
who’d turn a hundred this year,
took hold of my poetry reading.
Also liking some Billy Collins
and Clive James. Tony Hoagland’s
pleasant prose and light but raunchy
poems been worth my time.
Poetry, a pleasure,
in the writing and for the reading,
yet brainy head scratchers
laced with metaphoric depth have
pride of place on a lover’s shelf.
Raw life, pain, and beauty without
Old Buc’s art “is its own excuse.”
Look both ways,
to the darkness of shadows
and to the colors of light.
Mind the gaps of the matrix.