Essential Bukowski: Poetry

Автор

Чарльз Буковски

Жанр

Cтихи и поэзия

Год написания книги

2019

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some call Art

some call poetry;

it’s not death

but dying will solve its power

and as my gray hands

drop a last desperate pen

in some cheap room

they will find me there

and never know

my name

my meaning

nor the treasure

of my escape.

the priest and the matador (#ulink_5229c552-76e4-5bc5-9527-733bcfb4a8bc)

in the slow Mexican air I watched the bull die

and they cut off his ear, and his great head held

no more terror than a rock.

driving back the next day we stopped at the Mission

and watched the golden red and blue flowers pulling

like tigers in the wind.

set this to metric: the bull, and the fort of Christ:

the matador on his knees, the dead bull his baby;

and the priest staring from the window

like a caged bear.

you may argue in the marketplace and pull at your

doubts with silken strings: I will only tell you

this: I have lived in both their temples,

believing all and nothing—perhaps, now, they will

die in mine.

the state of world affairs from a 3rd floor window (#ulink_a61df8c7-04d1-516e-b0d8-d12df195f59d)

I am watching a girl dressed in a

light green sweater, blue shorts, long black stockings;

there is a necklace of some sort

but her breasts are small, poor thing,

and she watches her nails

as her dirty white dog sniffs the grass

in erratic circles;

a pigeon is there too, circling,

half dead with a tick of a brain

and I am upstairs in my underwear,

3 day beard, pouring a beer and waiting

for something literary or symphonic to happen;

but they keep circling, circling, and a thin old man

in his last winter rolls by pushed by a girl

in a Catholic school dress;

somewhere there are the Alps, and ships

are now crossing the sea;

there are piles and piles of H- and A-bombs,

enough to blow up fifty worlds and Mars thrown in,

but they keep circling,