The Return of the Love Poem

Bukowski couldn't hold a candle to Carver. Carver was a genius.

Dharma Bums? Not literature? I only asked, I'm not passing an opinion. All writers are cultural phenomena in as much as anybody bothers to read 'em and give thought to what they write. Chattering classes? That's us baby - just as soon as you chatter on any of these threads. Only the 'chattering classes' ever use the expression 'chattering classes' and I've just used it three times in two sentences. If you don't believe me try this little experiment, will ya; read any edition of the Sunday Times immediately after which, read any edition of the Sunday Mirror. Add up the number of times 'chattering classes' occurs in either paper. Anyway, we're chattering about Kerouac right here, right now in our very own self-contained, foodless, wineless, faceless, cyber dinner party. Anyone else still feel as empty and hungry as I do? If you would speak true, unadulterated wisdom probably best to keep your mouth well and truly shut otherwise; i) there will be a gap somewhere in your brain neurones (?) whatever they are, making your brain-function less than perfect, however smart you think you are ii) your mouth will not properly and fully interpret what your imperfect brain meant to say iii) listener's ears will likewise misinterpret already corrupted message iv) before transferring on to somewhat imperfect brain-function (see i) above) v) making pure communication totally f**king impossible. See, now you've gone and misunderstood me, haven't you? At least you understood the 'f**king' word, even though that was the only one with letters missing. I've a question. Well, two actually. What makes a book 'literature' as opposed to just a book/story? Who decides?

All I remember about Carver is that the decade of his life when he began getting books published at small presses was the decade that he almost died of alcoholism. Bukowski (Buk in Slavic means beech) Both were carvers of the wooden poetry viewed from the honesty of a hang-over. "It's strange. You never start out life with the intention of becoming a bankrupt or an alcoholic or a cheat and a thief. Or a liar." Like Bukowski, Carver used to tell huge lies about the character of the human race. Tiiime to visit the local, it's Friday night after all ...

...years ago an ex girlfriend raved about Brian Patten and his love poems....with all these recent nostalgia threads I started thinking about her again...and I ordered Brian Patten's love poems just to see if she was right....will I be disappointed ?

No you wont. Will he Eddie?

So tell us the 'truth' about the character of the human race, Jozef. I wait with interest. I wonder if your truth will be the same as my truth (always supposing I have one) - or even Bukowski's or Carver's. A lie is fine by me just so long as it's your own lie and it's interesting. There's no such thing as the truth and ain't that the truth. Unless - and here's an interesting proposition - maybe your truth is true for you whereas my truth is true for me. In which case there are as many truths as there are members of the human race and maybe Bukowski and Carver weren't telling lies after all. Maybe they were just telling their version of their truth, which is probably the best any of us can ever do.

i heard a definition of literary language as "having multiplicity of meaning" therefore does a literary work have more possibility of multiple interpretation by readers than a non literary work?

No. Brian Patten is one of the finest love poets writing today. Try 'Grinning Jack' and 'Armada' as well. 'Armada' is about the death of his mother. A very moving book. It's not so much poetry as open-heart surgery.

Inadvertently locked cat in garage last night with brand new copy of Bukowski's 'Post Office.' See footnote. When I got up this morning and let her out (she was making that cat noise - sorry, can't spell 'miaowing' - really loud) she'd pissed all over it. From some of your Bukowski comments above this seems entirely appropriate. Anyway if my cat thinks I'm such a pussy that a litre and a half of cat pee will stop me reading about degradation and squalor she's sadly mistaken. Post Office (the book, not the local amenity, idiot) is drying out on the landing radiator even as we speak. Err, what's that funny smell, I wonder? Also, I'm wondering does this make my cat a literary critic or does it just make me a very careless cat-owner? As it happens she does know something of the literary world because, on the advice of someone who posts on these threads (sorry, forgotten exactly who) and against my better judgement I bought 'How to be Good' (Nick Hornby). When cat saw this, she just kind of flicked her tail in that 'I'm a very angry cat' way, picked up book in teeth like it was an (almost) dead rat and buried it in the garden next to all the other sh*t. Footnote: Did I hear you ask why my book was in the garage? Because, silly, I brought it home on top of a box of work I intended to do which I them dumped in garage when mate rang me on mobile to invite me to a Rod and Tackle Party. That's a bit like one of them Anne Summers things girls, but for fishermen. Probably best if you don't think about this too much. Normally of course the book would go directly into the 'Fiction - Degradation and Squalor' section of the library in the west wing of the new annexe. PS. The Cat Pissing on Post Office story (hang on, sounds like the title of a Daliesque painting - where's me brushes) is absolutely true. If you don't beleive me you can come over and smell it. The book, stupid, not the cat. She doesn't like that sort of thing. I know, I've tried. PPS. Who is Carver and does this mean I've got to dash up town to Waterstones again today? PPPS. Aah, Irving. Setting Free the Bears - or have we done that already. Kerouac? Wasn't he the bloke who wrote 'On the Road' on the World's Biggest Bogroll? Subject of another Dali type painting maybe? PPPPS. Lot's of 'P' in this posting, ain't there? Cat's name? I hear you ask. She hasn't got one. Well, It's not like she's ever going to sign a cheque or anything, is it?

e.e. cummings for love poems ... mmmmmmm i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which i will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric furr, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh....And eyes big love-crumbs, and possibly i like the thrill of under me you so quite new

Thanks funky. I promise to come with you. If that doesn't put you off nothing will. Do you think, maybe, we could persuade those girls who sang Pure Shores to join us? No I thought not. You can't blame a bloke for asking. I'm no expert Liana but I reckon it's a love poem. Don't actually reckon 'love' and 'seediness' are mutually exclusive. If I may be so bold as to paraphrase Kundera to someone who knows so much about Prague; 'Love is either seedy or it is nothing at all.' I think what Kundera actually said was 'Love is either madness or it is nothing at all.' Life is Elsewhere - that's mine not the book, silly. Love is a villian that attacks you in the night.

My mate Lennie Bushell can find 'multiplicity of meaning' in a road sign (soft verges, for example). Does this make it literature and if so can you compose literature by accident? Since I assume that the bloke who writes road signs is not trying to win the Booker Prize as a kind of creative by-product. Maybe I'm under-estimating him. Doesn't this definition put too much power in the hands of the reader (interpreter)? Only asking.

Charlie B. One of me all time fave. 'Post Office' is part of a trilogy. There is a good movie about him and I am not talking 'Barfly'. The film in question is called 'Tales of Ordanaity Madness'. Stars the great Ben Gazzara. Ralph

How skilful would it be then, Andrew, to roll around in squalor (isn't that what squalor's for) and come up with a handful of dignity? Burroughs? Isn't he that bloke who shot his wife because he caught her balancing a glass on her head? A little harsh, perhaps, but you could see where he was coming from. Err, who is Carver? Or have I asked this before? Ralph, What kind of bloke tells someone 'it's part of a trilogy' but doesn't go on to say what the other two (? - not too good at maths) parts are? Come, on - spill the beans otherwise I'm gonna spend the rest of my life looking for two books by CB called 'Newsagent' and 'Greegrocer.' How would you like it if I came round your house and casually dropped into the conversation 'Oh, by the way Ralph I've discovered the secret of the instant female orgasm' then left without more ado. That last bit was just a 'what if' scenario girls, in case you're wondering.

Johhny Boy. Sorry, how shamful. Of course by the way I do know the orgasam answer (i am the fox apprantly). The other two books in the trilogy (some call it the Chinaski trilogy) are as follows. 1. Factotum (1975) 2. Women (1978) There is also blinding retrospective of his work called 'Run With The Hunted' A Charles Bukowski Reader. I highly recommend that as well. Mr Pack. I am a huge admirer of you, but Carver, come on. Middle class meddler that all he is. Ralph 'feels sap rising'

Bukowski rocked. I got a collection of poems and I absoloutely love 'Pulp'. That was a great piece of work.

Bukowski rocked. I got a collection of poems and I absoloutely love 'Pulp'. That was a great piece of work.

THe trouble with Society, Funky, is it's kind of got every where -a bit like when you spill a bottle of milk over the kitchen floor. Pretty damn quickly there's nowhere to step except in it If by any chance you know somewhere where Society isn't, let me know - I'll come with you if you need any company. Maybe you just prefer to be on your own.

So I heard, foxy baby, so I heard. Respect - as they say on the streets. care to make up a twosome so I pcik up your cast-offs? Well, that's how it worked with Lennie Bushell all those years ago. I shall read all three in the order indicated starting with Post Office just as soon as it has dried out. Err, Who is Carver and who is 'best' out of him and CB? Quick, before I go up Waterstones and by the wrong bloody Carver alltogether.

raymond carver...

Too late Ralph - my lunch hour is 12:30 to 1:30 and I'm not a bloke to dwell at my desk any longer than necessary. As it happens I picked the Carver and bought a bloody big fat book of short stories called 'Where I'm Calling From' which cost me the princely sum of £10.99. That would be OK except on the same or adjacent shelves were 'The Magic Toyshop' - Angela Carter, 'Oscar and Lucinda' - Peter Carey, 'A Happy Death' - Albert Camus, 'Invisible Cities' - Italo Calvino and 'The Big Sleep' - Raymond Chandler. Then I read on Carver's blurb that he's 'the American Chekov.' so I thought I'd get a Chekov (The Kiss and Other Stories) just to, well, check(ov). So the one book quickly became seven and the £10.99 quickly became £58.93. Plus I've now got the problem of sneaking all these on to the bookshelves without attracting attention to my heavy expenditure. You knowe, girls, the way you slide that new dress into the wardrobe to be worn at some later date claiming 'I've had it ages.' Think I'll hide 'em in the garage and smuggle 'em in one at a time. At least that way the cat will have some pretty classy literature to piss all over.

You should definitely write up the cat story and post it. That is an absolutely classic Bukowski moment. Buk's first novel (I think) and the one which has not been mentioned so far, is Ham on Rye. This covers his life from birth through early adulthood. Post Office, Factotum, and Women cover a later period. These are all novels, but highly autobiographical, as is his poetry. I haven't seen the movie Tales of Ordinary Madness, but it's supposed to be quite good. Barfly was only so-so. The book Tales of Ordinary Madness is a collection of short stories. One of them is called something like The Most Beautiful Girl in Town. Probably the most powerful short story I've ever read. Let us know what you think after sampling a bit more of Post Office. Good title: After the Cat Pee Dries.

Just remembered: Bukowski also had a cat, and his cat would someitmes piss on his keyboard. Take it for what its worth.

I want the truth, the whole truth' and nothing but the truth, so help me God!

I'm not good enough to do stories Justin. I just like these goddamn postings even though I know they're really, really bad for me. In much the same way I like Jim Beam whiskey and that blonde woman from down the road. I promised myself I'd stop but I'm addicted I fear. It will all end in tears for certain. By the way, if I can be serious for a moment - once in a lifetime offer - I'm sorry if I offended you by asking those questions on the other thread. I would never do such a thing intentionally but I've got a bit of a slack mouth now and again. You've probably noticed. I really hope that thing about Bukowski's cat pissing on his keyboard is true. Don't tell me if it isn't, just let me go on believing. Anyway re the cat piss thing. Ain't it strange how life imitates art which imitates life which imitates art . . . . . . . . .

I would love to find 'The Beach' that Alex Garland wrote about in his book. If I ever get my hands on a map John L I'll let you know.. hehe

Story about Bukowski's Cat is true. He wrote about it himself. Happened more than once. Wilde wrote an essay about the notion of life imitating art in which he basically said that art creates life, in the sense that stuff happens all the time, but no one particularly notices until someone points it out, perhaps in the form of a story, music, painting, etc. Of course, Wilde was being he old self-serving self as usual, but he does have a point. And besides, when people tell me I'm being self-serving, I tell them: Well, you know of course, we do live in a service economy these days, now don't we? I'm just helping along the economic progress of the land.

Bollocks!

John L, you've just reminded me of a Woody Allen line. Interviewer: Is sex dirty? Woody: Only if your doing it right.

the russian formalists said that literature takes language and makes it fresh, free of cliche and distinct from common usage which "automatises" words and makes them dull and commonplace to our ears. then the formalists were shot or escaped to america. despite this, i think they come closest to a good definition of what could be considered literature. i think that a large portion of what i read and write might be literate per se but not possessed of those qualities that would afford it the attribute of being literary for a grin and an example, read the pome "the cool web" by robert graves

it is at times like this that I realise an education in Eng. Lit or, in my case, just plain Eng. beyond CSE level (countless reviews -copied from mates- of Cider With Rosie and The Grapes of Wrath) would have been of more benefit to me than learning how to count bricks.

i am fond of the Russian Formalists ... they really prove that fashions in everything are cyclical ...

This is an awful admission, while we're doing American literature (and on the way, appropos of Talking Heads "My God, how did I get here?") - I enjoyed the introduction to Kerouac's On the Road, far, far, far more than I enjoyed the damn book... And while we're doing this, check out ja simpson on this site, he writes a damn fine bit of American-classic short story style. Try Bourbon.

THE GOOD-MORROW by John Donne I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then, But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee. And now good morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoveries to new worlds have gone, Let maps to others, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres Without sharp North, without declining West? Whatever dies was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.

Nope, I still ain't convinced...

Don't you even like the Bukowski thing Andrea? you're a hard woman to please. I'm reliable informed by my mate KingBoyD who lives on the Guardian chat rooms that Bukowski was a prolific poet but an even more prolific drinker. According to good old King Boy, who seems to know about these things he was 'a one man army against bullshit.' I'm just off now to check him out.

Well, yes, I s'pose it's ok. Teensy weensy bit too sloppy/soppy/twee for my liking, though.

I aint no poetry expert I'am afraid. My favourite love poem is 'The clod and the pebble.' by William Blake. He was an interesting character, apparently he could see angels, but his parents used to tell him off cause they thought he was telling fibs. I think he was a bit of a Seer myself. A poet and a painter with prodigious insight. Not a single word is wasted in this poem. The Clod and the Pebble ' Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease, And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.' So sang a little clod of clay Trodden with the cattle's feet; But a pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet; ' Love seeketh only self to please, To bind another to its delight; Joys in anothers loss of ease, And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.' William Blake

I am fond of the Russian Cyclists also, it's the legs and the Lycra. Love Robert Graves's poetry, Richard. `Welsh Incident` brilliant!

i got my serious education while i was counting bricks stormy, mr. garland the headteacher at my primary school used to stand over me and say things like "youre my bitch now, watt", and "whos your daddy." Inspireed me to become just like Roger Waters.

The cistern fills, the fountain overflows...

What is a poetry expert? If I didn't know better Andrea I'd say you were a hard woman! Personally I don't care for any of the examples offered here but then it's only a personal opinion. That's one of the things that make literature interesting, we all like different things. Funnily enough I find it strange that the more people there are that like a particular book/poem/painting, the more it is deemed to be a classic ,but the more people there are that use particular devices the more hackneyed they are judged to be! You just can't win!

RETURN of the love poem? ... you make it sound like a Star Wars Episode ... i wasn't aware that the love poem had ever gone away ... *sniffily reading elizabeth barrett browning and carol ann duffy and some things in between*

I've read just about everything the the Old Man wrote, including short stories and several novels, as well as several books of poetry, AND I have tapes and CDs of him reading his own works. The Buk is fabulous. You can look forward to a real experience getting to know him. He died in 1994 and actually a fair amount of his stuff has been published after his death. And yes, the man was a notorious drinker. He writes about this all the time. During a period in the 1970s/80s he would give poetry readings which would begin relatively sober, but he would drink and smoke cigars as he read and after a while they would get raucus. I have the tapes to prove it. I'll dig out some of my favorite Bukowski and post it here.

Pulling this thread back to its origins, I think blue eyed boy Martin T mentioned Brian Patten somewhere...here's one of his I love. It's not a sad poem, thoough maybe you wouldnt call it a "love poem" per se because of it's slighty seedy overtones.... Oh, and if he gets ratty about the copyright issue, I promise I'll make it up to him. :o) Party Piece Brian Patten He said: 'Let's stay here Now this place has emptied And make gentle pornography with one another, While the partygoers go out And the dawn creeps in, Like a stranger. Let us not hesitate Over what we know Or over how cold this place has become, But lets unclip our minds And let tumble free The mad, mangled crocodile of love.' So they did, There among the woodbines and guinness stains, And later he caught a bus and she a train And all there was between them then was rain.

yes yes when God created love He didn't help most when God created dogs He didn't help dogs when God created plants that was average when God created hate we had a standard utility when God created me He created me when God created the monkey He was asleep when He created the giraffe He was drunk when He created narcotics He was high and when He created suicide He was low when He created you lying in bed He knew what He was doing He was drunk and He was high and He created the mountains and the sea and fire at the same time He made some mistakes but when He created you lying in bed He came all over His Blessed Universe. Charles Bukowski Burning in Water Drowning in Flame This is what I would call a Bukowski Love Poem

I find myself in total agreement with mississippi. You just can't win. Winning is a much overrated pastime in any event.

my love is like a bowling ball, always slipping down the channel, my love is like old `Audenary`, and his famous pink flannel. my love is better than `Nurofen`, for getting rid of pain, my love can burst my blood vessels, when he choo choos like a train. my love is vintage port, with crackers and ripe old Brie, my love can give me a hernia, when he sits upon my knee. my love is a classic car, that's gone around the clock, my love is sentimental, and talks a load of `cock`. my love will always love me, as long as I'm alive, and then go and find another love, and love her `till she dies.

Totally unreliable out-of-control b*st*rd that I am, I've just stolen back a few minutes of my own life, deserted my desk, raced up the local Waterstones and spent £8.99 from the kids Xmas fund on 'Post Office' by aforementioned Bukowski dude. 'Hero' gets laid by fourth para of 2nd page. Why didn't any of you tell me about this bloke before? I thought you were my mates. That's what I call a love poem as well, Justin. Now all we have to do is convince Andrea. He came all over His Blessed Universe. Ain't that just like God. Can't keep anything to himself for very long. A bad case of Premature Creation. Well, well, well. Fantastic. Don't disturb me for a few day, will ya.

Charles Bukoskie big plusses total honesty, individual, not to emulate but take as a cautionary tale. Poor man's George Orwell. If you love the art of degradation and squalor `cause it tells it like it is, if it gets you in touch with the side your too scared to get in touch with and feels like catharsis, you'll love it. I used to but it's so miserable, one mans written memorial to a totally sad life. The man needed help. But because he could express himself in an angry f*** everbody way, he gained bystanders admiring a car wreck instead. William Burroughs, Bukowski, taking self emoliation to the nth degree, but heh! we can enjoy the art of madness. Cheap, risk free! And if it gives us the `truth` of our crap society, your damned if you `dis` it