by Charles Bukowski
almost dawn
blackbirds on the telephone wire
waiting
as I eat yesterday's
forgotten sandwich
at 6 a.m.
an a quiet Sunday morning.
one shoe in the corner
standing upright
the other laying on it's
side.
yes, some lives were made to be
wasted.
**
(it's that kind of day. deal with it.)
An Almost Made Up Poem
by Charles Bukowski
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it' all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I' not jealous
because we' never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame -- not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they' told
us, but listening to you I wasn' sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, " her, print her, she' mad but she'
magic. there' no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn' happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn' help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it' all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I' not jealous
because we' never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame -- not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they' told
us, but listening to you I wasn' sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, " her, print her, she' mad but she'
magic. there' no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn' happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn' help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
patrick rothfuss
is my new favorite. (this is a good month for my reading already, i feel.)
apart from the fact that i've read name of the wind twice over in the past three weeks, i just started reading wise man's fear - and i'm unable to tear myself away from the book. i love the way he builds his story. over three days books, this man, kvothe, who's a hero in this world, tells someone his story. so he just sort of starts with saying "oh, so today i'm going to tell you how i did this-that-and-the-other-thing", and you have no idea what these things are but he goes on to pull the earth from under your feet nevertheless.
an excerpt from wise man's fear:
“I have an apple that thinks it is a pear,” she said, holding it up. “And a bun that thinks it is a cat. And a lettuce that thinks it is a lettuce.”
“It’s a clever lettuce then.”
“Hardly,” she said with a delicate snort. “Why would anything clever think it was a lettuce?”
“Even if it is a lettuce?” I asked.
“Especially then,” she said. “Bad enough to be a lettuce. How awful to think you are a lettuce too.”
an excerpt from wise man's fear:
“I have an apple that thinks it is a pear,” she said, holding it up. “And a bun that thinks it is a cat. And a lettuce that thinks it is a lettuce.”
“It’s a clever lettuce then.”
“Hardly,” she said with a delicate snort. “Why would anything clever think it was a lettuce?”
“Even if it is a lettuce?” I asked.
“Especially then,” she said. “Bad enough to be a lettuce. How awful to think you are a lettuce too.”
something to tell you
i officially love hanif kureshi. from the very first page of 'something to tell you', he had me reeling with love. nothing but love. let me explain:
"Secrets are my currency: I deal in them for a living. The secrets of desire, of what people really want, and of what they fear the most. The secrets of why love is difficult, sex complicated, living painful and death so close and yet placed far away. Why are pleasure and punishment closely related? How do our bodies speak? Why do we make ourselves ill? Why do you want to fail? Why is pleasure so hard to bear?"
these are the opening lines of the book.
what can i say, he had me at 'secrets'.
:)
"Secrets are my currency: I deal in them for a living. The secrets of desire, of what people really want, and of what they fear the most. The secrets of why love is difficult, sex complicated, living painful and death so close and yet placed far away. Why are pleasure and punishment closely related? How do our bodies speak? Why do we make ourselves ill? Why do you want to fail? Why is pleasure so hard to bear?"
these are the opening lines of the book.
what can i say, he had me at 'secrets'.
:)
codex alera
okay, so in three days i have all but devoured the first three books of the codex alera series. don't look at me like that, okay? i do indeed have a life - i just happen to have a choice about whether or not i get any work done. the thing i like best about this series is that i don't have to wait years and years and years to know how it ends. i (ha! take THAT, robertjordanandbrandonsandersonandjkrowlingandkategriffinandjasperffordeandamitavfrickinghoshalsobah).
i also really, really like the way jim butcher writes cheesy love. sigh.
i also really, really like the way jim butcher writes cheesy love. sigh.
the burden - edwin morgan
The Burden
Whatever is a burden, let it go.
To tug and tie is futile, let it go.
Like Christian at the river, let it go.
Not that you'll muster the winds, not that.
No one is unmelting trophies, not that.
It's not a one-off trebuchet, not that.
But oh you want to raise the dagged and drear ones.
You want to cut a clearing for the dear ones.
You want to hold and prop and urge the near ones.
Free as air and strong as iron, you'd do it.
Groans, guilts, bent backs, stubbed toes will never do it.
You know what you most loose and lose, so do it.
So do it and take the heart, the roads are long.
Stride straight until the clean shadows are long.
Sleep an unburdened sleep when nights are long.
-Edwin Morgan
**
Very recently, I came across this website. It's absolutely delightful. :)
http://breathe-poetry.livejournal.com
Whatever is a burden, let it go.
To tug and tie is futile, let it go.
Like Christian at the river, let it go.
Not that you'll muster the winds, not that.
No one is unmelting trophies, not that.
It's not a one-off trebuchet, not that.
But oh you want to raise the dagged and drear ones.
You want to cut a clearing for the dear ones.
You want to hold and prop and urge the near ones.
Free as air and strong as iron, you'd do it.
Groans, guilts, bent backs, stubbed toes will never do it.
You know what you most loose and lose, so do it.
So do it and take the heart, the roads are long.
Stride straight until the clean shadows are long.
Sleep an unburdened sleep when nights are long.
-Edwin Morgan
**
Very recently, I came across this website. It's absolutely delightful. :)
http://breathe-poetry.livejournal.com
cairo
by G. Willow Wilson
I don't know how to talk about my love for Rumi. The first of his poems I read is called 'Enough Words?'. I was so stunned by it, I could hardly sleep that night. I read it many times over, savoring it, going over the words time and time again. 'Darkness is your candle. Your boundaries are your quest.' There's so much about those lines - I seek comfort in them, I'm constantly confused by them.
This post though, isn't about Rumi as much as it is about Cairo, a graphic novel by G. Willow Wilson. It brings together a few wayward characters together into something that has been going on for ages past. This place where I am right now was circled on a map for me*. It starts coolly enough, and then with one tiny jerk, you fall down a rabbit hole, end up in the Under Nile where you can be spiderman and water defies gravity. It's one of the most beautiful stories I have read in a very, very long time. It's also something I suspect I will read over and over again, and immediately.
*Google tells me this line is Hafiz, not Rumi.
I don't know how to talk about my love for Rumi. The first of his poems I read is called 'Enough Words?'. I was so stunned by it, I could hardly sleep that night. I read it many times over, savoring it, going over the words time and time again. 'Darkness is your candle. Your boundaries are your quest.' There's so much about those lines - I seek comfort in them, I'm constantly confused by them.
This post though, isn't about Rumi as much as it is about Cairo, a graphic novel by G. Willow Wilson. It brings together a few wayward characters together into something that has been going on for ages past. This place where I am right now was circled on a map for me*. It starts coolly enough, and then with one tiny jerk, you fall down a rabbit hole, end up in the Under Nile where you can be spiderman and water defies gravity. It's one of the most beautiful stories I have read in a very, very long time. It's also something I suspect I will read over and over again, and immediately.
*Google tells me this line is Hafiz, not Rumi.
soon
Three years ago or more, Zee Studio (I think) ran a series of 'foreign language films' a couple of nights a week at 11.30. I was living with my film-crazy cousin at the time, so the two of us would, whenever we could, sit down and watch these films, then go out for a drink (to pickles!) after.
One of those weeks, they showed Akira Kurosawa's Seven Samurai. I couldn't watch the first twenty minutes because I got home very late, I watched about thirty minutes after that, and then stopped watching it because I decided I wasn't doing the film any justice - watching it like that, on TV, with advertisements, not even from the beginning. That was pretty much the end of my Kurosawa experience.
But I've read so much about him, and I've been meaning to finish watching that film, for so long, that when Landmark decided to sell 5 of his DVDs for 500 rupees - I bought it without a second thought. Then, immediately, I also bought Something like an Autobiography on Flipkart. Now, I refresh my 'Track shipment' page every day hoping that it will turn up soon. I plan to watch the movies and read the book, slowly, over the next couple of months. That is my grand plan of the week.
One of those weeks, they showed Akira Kurosawa's Seven Samurai. I couldn't watch the first twenty minutes because I got home very late, I watched about thirty minutes after that, and then stopped watching it because I decided I wasn't doing the film any justice - watching it like that, on TV, with advertisements, not even from the beginning. That was pretty much the end of my Kurosawa experience.
But I've read so much about him, and I've been meaning to finish watching that film, for so long, that when Landmark decided to sell 5 of his DVDs for 500 rupees - I bought it without a second thought. Then, immediately, I also bought Something like an Autobiography on Flipkart. Now, I refresh my 'Track shipment' page every day hoping that it will turn up soon. I plan to watch the movies and read the book, slowly, over the next couple of months. That is my grand plan of the week.
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