Charles Bukowski - a smile to remember

[suzieq70s]

I hope it's ok to put this on here. This is one of the best poems I've ever read and I wanted to share it. For me at least it takes me inside the moment as if I were a silent invisible observer of it all.

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?'

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled

by Charles Bukowski

 

[Pibolar]

This is actually a very good poem and I enjoyed reading it. Thank you for sharing.

 

[JahSEEuS]

I'm not sure what the rules are on this but I'd like to post 2 of my favorite poems from bluelighters I used to read in the past and think that others would enjoy them as well. Things get lost so easily around here.

http://www.bluelight.org/vb/threads/407079-Fish-Eye-Life

30-11-2008 09:06 sleepy_door_mouse
I try to be a relatively upbeat person; but sometimes the crazy, unhappy bastard inside has to come out... Enjoy!


I just dont understand, alright?
All of it. Any of it.

I dont understand how a drug that kills millions, ruins lives and ends (given long enough) in one tragedy or another can be perfectly legal; yet a not-so-dissimilar drug, which harms only the users (and sometimes not even them), can earn a man time in a cage.
I dont understand the laws. Not the customs or traditions. Not the morals or values.
I dont understand how the masses can be so easily bought into believing in someone, tricked like children at a magic show - poof, rabbit-of-the-hat, smoke and mirrors, the whole shebang.
I dont understand how food rots in some places, while the people rot in others.
I dont understand how love and hate are so close, how pain and pleasure are but a hair's width apart.
I dont understand hope, the essence of positive-possibility; faith in something better, still yet to come. Wait for tomorrow.
I dont understand how Im supposed to live life without any inkling of leaving a mark, no thought of bearing change. Dust in the wind.
I dont understand how in a few years time a man can fall, crumbling like ancient brick, into nothing. A facade. A shadow of himself.

I dont understand the minds. Not happiness or sadness. Not love or even hatred. Certainly not trust, assuredly not faith.
I dont understand the hope. Not for a better tomorrow. Not for a revolution. Not even for today.
I dont understand how Im supposed to trust a creature of free will, a being who has no restraints but those it creates for itself.
I dont understand you. Humans. Homo-sapien, 'children of God'. Us. We. Me.
I understand your wants - lust and greed, hunger and pain, fear and pleasure. I understand, but I rarely share - which I suppose means I dont really understand at all.
I just dont understand, and as a human, a being bound to the mortal coil, I likely never will.

I keep trying, and it just dosnt work out.
Trying to change minds is a job for liars - those who enjoy the power of warping the truth to their own ends.
Not me.
Trying to help others is a job for bleeding hearts and masochists - those who get wet thinking of an unaccomplishable goal with their name on it.
Not me.
Trying to feel is for those who have little else - they throw themselves into emotion, sensation, the moment; even if the moment isnt real.
Not me.
Trying to change things is for those with no concept of history - in a world of 6.5 billion, everyone is just a fad. A one hit wonder. A lesson in outwiththeoldinwiththenew.
Not me.
Trying to hope is for those who believe is something more - a fairy tale of Gods and Devils, angels, demons and eternal life.
Not real. Not me.
Trying to trust is for those with closed eyes - you cant trust anyone in a world of free will, because no matter how hard you work for someone they will never value you over themselves.
Not ever.
Not me.

So what am I, if none of the above?
There are men out there, great in their own right, who wish only to watch.
To watch Troy burn. To watch Germany falter. To watch it all fade to ash.
Not so they can keep track, and not so they can remember - they do it so they know they are still alive. They do it, because where everything else fails them, watching never will.
You can never see enough, my darlings.
Never see it all. Not in one lifetime.
And, not to ruin the ending, we all die. Every one of us.
In the end, it really does come down to what youve seen. It really comes down to who really lived.
Me?

Im alive.
For now.

I understand that 20-something years is a short time in which to make a basis.
I understand I might be jumping the gun; pun thoroughly intended.
But really, who cares?
One more fish out of the sea, flopping itself dry in the sun, gasping for the last breath that will never come.

But maybe that fish has the right idea.
Water distorts light - youve seen it, coming out of a pool or the sea; radiance twisted and swirled, becoming a confusing jumble, a warped reality.
But once youre through, once you pass the surface, everything seems so clear - everything makes sense again.
The flopping fish, he sees clearly, if only for an instant.
His eyes are open, no film of distortion blocking the truth. No barrier blocking corrupting the light.
That fish, as he contorts in pain, his last moments fading away with each gasping attempt at breathing - he can suddenly see it all.
The land. The trees. The sky. The sun.
A bursting orb of light so powerful, so impossibly large and far-away that it seems like a fantasy to those scurrying about on the surface of this rock.
That fish, in his last minutes, last seconds in this world, his last seconds as 'that fish', they may well be the best.
It may be that thats the idea.
Maybe we have to fight against what we see, maybe we have to take the path that leads to destruction, if only for that last instant of clarity.
Maybe, in those last few seconds of life, looking out over an alien landscape and blinded by a burning ball of heat and light a billion miles away, that fish is the happiest fish in the whole of existence....No, not happy: Fulfilled.
Or maybe it just dies.

'To be reborn, first you have to die.'
Hey, we all gotta start somewhere.
Dont ask me - I already told you, I dont even understand myself.

And for the record - eyebrows make the man. Can you dig it?

 

[JahSEEuS]

http://www.bluelight.org/vb/threads...d-His-Beautiful-Picture?p=6189078#post6189078

14-07-2008 12:20 The Bulb and Report Post
Let us say that a man has painted a picture.

Well, he didnt paint it himself really - it was more like he found this picture.
This picture is amazing, awe-inspiring. Beautiful in every way.
This picture, you could never get tired of looking at it.
Infact, this man, he could stare at the picture all day. And at the end of that day, he'd feel nothing but joy.
Satisfaction. Happy.

But what does a man do with such a beautiful picture?
Does he hang it up in his home? Lock it away? Hide its beauty from all but himself?
Some men, they just might.
But this man, our man, he's really putting some thought in.

If he really wants to keep the picture, he has to lock it away - lest it be stolen by someone else.
You see, this picture, its just THAT beautiful.
That special. That amazing.
If would only be a matter of time before he lost it.
So if our man wants to sequester this picture away, maybe it will remain his.
He could try.
Keep it safe. Hold on tight. Dont ever let go.

But our man, as I said, is putting in some serious thought.
This picture means alot to him, after all.
'This picture is so beautiful,' he thinks 'that there is no way I will be able to keep someone from taking it.'
'Theres no way it will ever really be mine.'
'Somewhere out there is someone who will love it even more than I do.'
'Somewhere out there is someone who really deserves it.'
This is what he thinks, our man.
'Somewhere out there is someone who...' and his thoughts go on and on and on.
In the end, all this thought, it leads him to conclusion.
Somewhere out there is someone who can make this picture, 'his' picture, into a masterpiece.
Someone who can help it reach its full potential.
Somewhere out there is the person that picture was meant to be found by.
Our man, hes not the brightest of bulbs, because it never once occurs to him that maybe he is that someone.
Never once.

But our man, he isnt dumb.
He knows he cant just give it up.
He knows he cant see the picture and not want it for himself.
So our man, after all this thought, he makes a decision.
He decides to give up the picture.
So he gives it up. Abandons it.
He walks away.
Far away.
As far away as his legs will take him.
When his legs fail, he crawls.
He assumes someone else will find the picture, and hes right.

Eventually though, our man, he has to come back.
Needs a place to hang his hat, get in from the rain and all that jazz, after all.
So, he comes slogging home.
Hes drenched in rain and mud and God-only-knows what else.
Hes lonely. Hes tired.
To be quite honest, hes alittle afraid.
After seeing such a picture, it seems like life has lost its luster.
The sun isnt as bright. The leaves, not as green. The air, not as crisp.
Life, simply not as good.

So, our man, he decides to see what ever happened to that picture.
Not that he wants it back or anything, he thinks.
He just wants to see how things turned out.
Our man, he finds out the picture, 'his' picture, is doing just fine.
Someone else did find it.
Now, its free to find its own way in the world.
Now, it dosnt belong to anyone.
It is free to go anywhere, to be seen by anyone.

The man, our man, he takes one last look at the picture.
Its a long look. Probably more of a stare.
Its hard to look away from something beautiful for the last time, after all.

Then he does something rather strange.
He turns away and he smiles.
Cold, alone, exhausted, covered in shit and without 'his' picture.
Our man smiles.
'Strange as it seems, Im happy.' he thinks.
'I had my time with that picture, and though it will never be 'mine', I will never really forget what it looks like.'
'Some part of that picture, it will always be mine. And some part of me will always be left with it.'
Our man, he thinks 'I can live with that.'
And then he walks away again.
He was right, on some level.
He never forgot that picture. Not really.

Not the brightest bulb, our man.
Good fella though...

 

[suzieq70s]

Those are so well written. Thought provoking and they drag you into the moment. They make you feel. I'm trying to explain it better but I can't come up with the appropriate words that would do them justice