Bukowski

Being an English major in college, and an English teacher now, of course I love poetry. I used to be very, very into borderline obsessed with Sylvia Plath when I was about 15 and obsessed with Bukowski and Anne Sexton and all the rest of those amazing confessional poets throughout my adolescent and teen years. And hell, I'm still obsessed with my darling Plath and read the others as much as possible. I think reading that insane poetry made me a little odd growing up. I still can't figure out and remember how exactly I got into all of it, but I was terribly emo way before that silly term even existed, and I used to write insanely dark poetry quite often. It's funny because I think I always appeared happy but I had this weird little dark side to me that I reveled in. Now that I'm so happy most of the time, grown up and out of my coming-of-age emotions, it's hard for me to really sit down and write like I used to. I still do, but not as frequently. I read for at least two hours everyday though, and today I rediscovered this poem and it made me really happy, and sad, and feel weird. It reminds me of something from a long time ago.

Do you have a favorite poet? I'd love to hear who you love.

I'll leave with the poem I stumbled upon-

some dogs who sleep at night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coming down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
rotten
past, and
you finally got
out
by dying,
leaving me with the
rotten
present;
you’ve been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
life;
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
carped
nonsensically about
nonsense;
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here’s a drink
to your bones
that
this dog
still
dreams about.


-Charles Bukowski