The People Look Like Flowers At Last: New Poems (Anglais) Relié – 27 mars 2007
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Descriptions du produit
Présentation de l'éditeur
the gas line is leaking, the bird is gone from the
cage, the skyline is dotted with vultures;
Benny finally got off the stuff and Betty now has a job
as a waitress; and
the chimney sweep was quite delicate as he
giggled up through the
I walked miles through the city and recognized
nothing as a giant claw ate at my
stomach while the inside of my head felt
airy as if I was about to go
it’s not so much that nothing means
anything but more that it keeps meaning
there’s no release, just gurus and self-
appointed gods and hucksters.
the more people say, the less there is to say.
even the best books are dry sawdust.
—from "fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces"
Biographie de l'auteur
Charles Bukowski is one of America’s best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in 1920 in Andernach, Germany, to an American soldier father and a German mother, and brought to the United States at the age of two. He was raised in Los Angeles and lived there for over fifty years. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp.
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Détails sur le produit
Commentaires en ligne
Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
Being a Charles Bukowski fan since his death in 1994 has, for the most part, been an exercise in treading water. He left a phenomenal body of work to be published posthumously, but let's face it, he published most of the good stuff before he died. Way before, some would say. But The People Look Like Flowers at Last is the first book of poetry (The Captain Is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship, a book of prose, is remarkable) since Bukowski's death where some of the poems really resound. Like Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame resound. Sure, in a book of three hundred pages, not all of them do, but some of this is Buk's best work since the early seventies. And all this time it was sitting in a drawer...
"I suppose like other
I have come through fire and sword,
love gone wrong,
head-on crashes, drunk at sea,
and I have listened to the simple sound of water running in tube
and wished to drown
but simply couldn't bear the others
carrying my body down three flights of stairs
to the round mouths of curious biddies..."
("it is not much")
So many of Bukowski's poems from the past forty years have been observational and nothing else. Astute, well-worded observations, of course, but no sense of closure, nothing other than stories that seem to be told and then sit there without asking the reader to think more. I'm not denigrating this type of poem (at least not when Bukowski writes it), but every once in a while he pops up with a poem in a more traditional structure, something that says "hey, you know, I've been thinking about..." and blasting the reader with fantastic images that are actually anchored to something. The majority of Burning in Water... is like that, and it's the last book with a clear majority of such poems. In the posthumous work, I thought they'd all died out, but such is not the case. It's not a majority, but there are enough here to keep the reader hungry for the next posthumous work. My favorite Buk in quite a while. *** ½
If you're interested in his racetrack poems or his poems about other writers, this book has some great ones. It's a bit lacking in those striking poems about the death of one of his former wives, which were always surprisingly vulnerable for such an already candid poet.
I would recommend this book to any Bukowski fan - it's a bit rough as a 100% first-Bukowski read - but weak Bukowski is still excellent poetry.