I have officially discovered Charles Bukowski. I didn’t realize he wrote poetry. I always see people quoting him, but I didn’t know why.
I was looking for Beowulf. There’s too many translations. Bukowski is the next shelf down. I find The Last Night of the Earth Poems. It’s supposed to rain tonight, the cold kind that freezes black. I see “rain” in the table of contents, expect plink plink plunk.
But it’s about the Depression. About being trapped. About mothers who were “once beautiful wives.” About how you lie to make it all a story. Just a story.
And it’s about how finally “there was a blazing yellow sunlight, Van Gogh yellow–crazy, blinding!” and “most of the boys cheered and the little girls sat . . . in a sunshine that the world might never see again.”