[ Free pdf ] The Last Night of the Earth PoemsAuthor Charles Bukowski – 91videos.co

Popular Books, The Last Night Of The Earth Poems By Charles Bukowski This Is Very Good And Becomes The Main Topic To Read, The Readers Are Very Takjup And Always Take Inspiration From The Contents Of The Book The Last Night Of The Earth Poems, Essay By Charles Bukowski Is Now On Our Website And You Can Download It By Register What Are You Waiting For Please Read And Make A Refission For You First time reading a book of Bukowski s poetry cover to cover and I absolutely loved it. The Last Night of the Earth Poems by Charles Bukowski is without doubt one of the best modern poetry books I have ever read in twenty years of existing His way with words is very complicated to get around, but once the reader breaks his many linguistic codes, the reader enters a world of I am not even sure how to describe it Bukowski s understanding of the world, is rather rare yet both dark and poetic in a way very few can handle the way he does it He manage to describe feelings, rather complicated by comparing them to something very simple, something most people can somehow relate to He also manage to turn a situation most people would find disturbing completely upside down, which is illustrated in his poemthe man with beautiful eyes when we were kidsthere was a strange houseall the shades werealwaysdrawnand we never heard voicesin thereand the yard was full ofbambooand we liked to play inthe bamboopretend we wereTarzan although there was noJane.and there was afish ponda large onefull of thefattest goldfishyou ever sawand they weretame.they came to thesurface of the waterand took pieces ofbreadfrom our hands.Our parents hadtold us never go near thathouse so, of course,we went.we wondered if anybodyliveed there.weeks went by and wenever sawanybody.then one daywe hearda voicefrom the house YOU GOD DAMNEDWHORE it was a man svoice.then the screendoorof the house wasflung openand the manwalkedout.he was holding afifth of whiskeyin his righthand.he was about30.he had a cigarin hismouth,needed a shave.his hair waswild andand uncombedand he wasbarefootin undershirtand pants.but his eyeswerebright.they blazedwithbrightnessand he said, hey, littlegentlemen,having a goodtime, Ihope then he gave alittle laughand walkedback into thehouse.we left,went back to myparents yardand thoughtabout it.our parents,we decided,had wanted usto stay awayfrom therebecause theynever wanted usto see a manlikethat,a strong naturalmanwithbeautifuleyes.our parentswere ashamedthat they werenotlike thatman,that s why theywanted usto stayaway.butwe went backto that houseand the bambooand the tamegoldfish.we went backmany timesfor many weeksbut we neversawor heardthe managain.the shades weredownas alwaysand it wasquiet.then one dayas we came back fromschoolwe saw thehouse.it had burneddown,there was nothingleft,just a smoulderingtwisted blackfoundationand we went tothe fish pondand there wasno waterin itand the fatorange goldfishwere deadthere,drying out.we went back tomy parents yardand talked aboutitand decided thatour parents hadburned theirhouse down,had killedthemhad killed thegoldfishbecause it wasall toobeautiful,even the bambooforest hadburned.they had beenafraid ofthe man with thebeautifuleyes.andwe were afraidthenthatall throughout our livesthings like thatwouldhappen,that nobodywantedanybodyto bestrong andbeautifullike that,thatothers would neverallow it,and thatmany peoplewould have todie.Normally, most people would have found the drunk man disturbing and very much unappealing, but the way Bukowski writes and makes life clear turns the entire experience up side down I can only recommend his works, especially this one, The Last Night of the Earth Poems, to everyone who has the slightest interest in poetry, modern literature or simply Bukowski If you have not read any of this work, this would be a significant place to start. The ugly made beautiful three stars This is my favourite poem from this collectionThe Bluebird there s a bluebird in my heart thatwants to get outbut I m too tough for him,I say, stay in there, I m not goingto let anybody seeyou there s a bluebird in my heart thatwants to get outbut I pour whiskey on him and inhalecigarette smokeand the whores and the bartendersand the grocery clerksnever know thathe sin there there s a bluebird in my heart thatwants to get outbut I m too tough for him,I say,stay down, do you want to messme up you want to screw up theworks you want to blow my book sales inEurope there s a bluebird in my heart thatwants to get outbut I m too clever, I only let him outat night sometimeswhen everybody s asleep.I say, I know that you re there,so don t besad.then I put him back,but he s singing a littlein there, I haven t quite let himdieand we sleep together likethatwith oursecret pactand it s nice enough tomake a manweep, but I don tweep, doyou I knew from the very first page that Charles Bukowski is what I ve spent my entire life looking for in a poet His slice of life poems, be they three lines or three pages, are so raw, so simple yet so significant, that they re so perfectly representational of the embittered writer who has both no patience for bullshit and miles upon miles of talent The word choice, construction and basic subject matter usually a fleeting moment from Bukowski s life that would have been rendered trite and self aggrandizing in any other hands make for an in your face trifecta of thoroughly addicting observations Reading these poems is like listening to the slightly off kilter but mostly harmless older guy next door rattle off some of the most beautiful vignettes, proving that even the most hopeless scenario at least can be seen in an aesthetically brilliant light The rawness of his language, the baseness of the subject, the stark and mincing perspective, and the lines that are so damn clever they make your breath hitch in your throat come together for simply, profoundly affecting compositions Drawing from his own life gives Bukowski s poems a sense of existing in a specific place and interacting with the world on its own playing field, as opposed to being poetry that s simply passively enjoyed for a grade There s something undeniably visceral about Bukowski s poems, and I think it comes largely from the fact that the recurring elements in his pieces are the recurring elements of his life Something that has an entire poem devoted to it Bukowski s past landladies, foppish intellectuals, his cats, gambling gets only a few lines in a poem focusing on a broader scope, which just lends this sense of getting it and being there that just makes this collection of poems so tangible And I just really like how his poems start off and give a slight indication of where they re going, only to end up way out in left field You know, just like life. Le Tigre had a great song titled Mediocrity Rules A poet loaned me this book I don t think he liked Bikini Kill Sometimes I think about Bono and Sean Penn calling Bukowski and I die a little inside For a number of reasons. Unless I remember incorrectly, this was the final book Bukowski published before he passed away I was very interested in getting my hands in it, in the hopes that something extra would be revealed Silly, now that I have read the book The poems were much like his past poems The topics were mostly the same, though certain trends his father, remembering his early years, former landladies, bars, classical music, and observations of the everyday and struggling human were evident than I have so far noticed in his previous collections This was not my favorite collection It might be my least favorite but even considering, it is still better than most anything else I have read, poetry wise, and I loved every single poem in this collection More were memorable than others, which is the only reason why I rate Bukowski s collections less than 5 stars Less than half were truly memorable Drop a star then Reading his poetry is like coming home to an empty house, yet with the fire already roaring and a hot tottie waiting on the counter I find great comfort in Bukowski s words I like knowing that there was someone cynical than myself All the better for that someone to be able to express it clearly I feel that Bukowski was able to cut through all of the shit in the world and really see the bottom of the bucket though, not all of the poems in this collection were critical and unforgiving Some notes on the poems dinner, 1933 was about how Bukowski s father would eat, slurping and wallowing in his food, and it was disturbing to read I have an aversion to loud eaters myself so the poem was extra icky the bully, another involving his father, was satisfying in a vengeful sort of way flophouse was depressing and hopeless Only Bukowski would consider that telling his wife he loved her as something of a confession, in the poem of the same name Most people consider love a given, or at least are comfortable enough to say it on occasion From Ill, I feast on solitude I will never miss the crowd and from crap, can t find the title of the poem I am my brother s keeper I keep him away sum up beautifully why I can connect with this author I feel the same most days The insults and stabs seemed better than normalbunny droppings, ratfucker, piss biting shrewsSome of the poems were about other authors who Bukowski respected or at least could relate to somehow the word, about where he was when he first read each of his favorite authors, was beautifully nostalgic and them and us darkly humorous I quite liked show biz, about learning how to be grateful for the little things each day, and they are everywhere, which is omly further proof that Bukowski understood people and how the world really works they are everywherethe tragedy sniffers are allabout.they get up in the morningand begin to find thingswrongand they fling themselvesinto a rage aboutit,a rage that lasts untilbedtime,where even therethey twist in theirinsomnia,not able to rid theirmindof the petty obstaclesthey haveencountered.they feel set against,it s a plot.and by being constantlyangry they feel thatthey are constantlyright.you see them in traffichonking wildlyat the slightestinfraction,cursing,spewing theirinvectives you feel themin linesat banksat supermarketsat movies,they are pressingat your backwalking on yourheels,they are impatient toa fury.they are everywhereand intoeverything,these violentlyunhappysouls.actually they arefrightened,never wanting to bewrongthey lash outincessantlyit is a maladyan illness ofthatbreed.the first oneI saw like thatwas myfatherand since thenI have seen athousandfathers,ten thousandfatherswasting their livesin hatred,tossing their livesinto thecesspoolandrantingon. there s a bluebird in my heart thatwants to get outbut I am too tough for him.I only let him outat night sometimeswhen everybody s asleep.I say, I know that you re there,so don t besad.then I put him back,but he s singing a littlein there, I haven t quite let himdieand we sleep together likethatwith oursecret pactand it s nice enough tomake a manweep, but I don tweep, doyou His best poem, definitely. The bluebird There s a bluebird in my heart thatwants to get outbut I m too tough for him,I say, stay in there, I m not goingto let anybody seeyou.There s a bluebird in my heart thatwants to get outbut I pour whiskey on him and inhalecigarette smokeand the whores and the bartendersand the grocery clerksnever know thathe sin there.There s a bluebird in my heart thatwants to get outbut I m too tough for him,I say,stay down, do you want to messme up you want to screw up theworks you want to blow my book sales inEurope There s a bluebird in my heart thatwants to get outbut I m too clever, I only let him outat night some timeswhen everybody s asleep.I say I know that you re there,so don t be sad.then I put him back,but he s singing a littlein there, I haven t quite let him dieand we sleep together likethatwith our secret pactand its nice enough tomake a manweep, but I don t weep, do you Happy Canada Day goodreaders This was the first of Bukowski s works I encountered.I was skipping English class to read in the library about Hemingway and Fitzgerald I had loaded my arms with books about them and their relationship and while I walked back to the area I was sitting, I shot out my hand randomly and picked a book from the shelves Not knowing what it was, what it was named, who wrote it, just for the hell of it As soon as I sat down I opened to the first page and began reading the first poem It was magic The ease of the words, such flow, such poignance I was in love After finishing the first poem, I flipped the book over and began reading from the back toward the front I finished the entire book there and found myself a new, wonderful writer to read Screw Hemingway and Fitzgerald The Last Night of the Earth Poems was written in his later life, when Bukowski began to concentrate on poetry rather than stories As with all his end work, he focuses on memories, the word, literature, and what it means to be a writer the transition to old age and success, and the fate of death Most Bukowski fans, I assume, will love the earlier stuff The crazy stuff The stuff they can relate to But I ve always been an old man at heart The Last Night of the Earth Poems is my favorite, not only of Bukowski s, but of all time.