Number 43: Charles Bukowski "So You Want To Be A Writer?"

So You Want to Be a Writer?

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.


if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

-- Charles Bukowski

Hap Notes: Charles Bukowski, born Heinrich Karl Bukowski (1920-1994) in Andernach Germany, enjoyed his "outsider" reputation with relish. He loved to poke holes in "established" values by whipping out the seamy side of life in all its stinking glory. He reveled in readings at which he drank, cursed at the audience and made lewd remarks to the females in the group. This, in large part, was his schtick- it allowed him to make a living as a poet (which came late in his life, anyway- his 40s) and satisfy audiences full of sincere middle-class kids who wanted to see a ragged rebel poet tell off the world. He was allowed, indeed, even encouraged, to act exactly as he wanted to and he did not usually take the high road.

Bukowski was enormously prolific and wrote hundreds of poems. About fifty percent of those poems are mediocre diatribes describing a life of a man who felt abandoned by life, disgusted by the rigid routine lives we are forced into and who turned to alcohol to make it through the dim days of his ordinary street life. Another twenty-five percent of his poems stink on ice. Most poets write crappy, unsuccessful poems so I mean this as no particular slight to his work- but when his poems stink-- they reek. Then we have the last twenty-five percent which are revelations. They are inspired, riding on a tide of some universal magic and come "roaring out." All in all, that's not a bad average. But I caution you when reading his very easy-to-read work to listen very closely to what he is saying. Most of the time, he's weeping, no matter what he says he's doing. Okay, sometimes he's wailing.

This poem, taken from a posthumous 2003 collection of his work is a later poem, written in the first age of computers. While he doesn't quite come out and say it, I will: his work has spawned countless legions of young would-be poets writing utter crap or, at the very least, crap that should have stayed in their journals. He takes writing seriously in spite of his antic posturings. When he was first published, he made no money at all from it. He couldn't have bought a bus ticket to San Diego with the earnings. He wanted to be published. He thought enough of his work to want it to see print. Don't forget that, no matter what he throws at you to take you off the track. And man, this boy can throw some pretty harsh crap.

"Outsider" poetry is kind of a zen koan of a misnomer. If one is really an "outsider" it's difficult to get noticed- hence the name. Once you get a little small press attention, you certainly aren't in the main stream of contemporary literature but you're encroaching on its territory. Once you get published, you are more inside than out. You gradually become an "insider." It takes all your will power to stay "outside." It's almost impossible to achieve.

Bukowski is telling you as much in this poem. Writing has got to be something that burns a hole in your soul-- it hurts- this drive, if you don't do it- he gives ample illustrations of this. You don't care whether you are outside or inside- you just write to save your sanity, your soul, your life. And you don't have to say to your mate or your pals, "I've written this new poem and I need you to tell me if it's okay." It would be nice to think he is trying to save us all from those people. I choose to think of this as a little gift Bukowski is trying to give us. You can publish yourself in this era. So shut up and write.

Bukowski is a mass of contradictions, just as we all are. He was more literate than he pretended not to be, just read his poem on Carson McCullers. He wrote that heartbreaking Bluebird poem; he has substance and style. Everybody tries to steal his muse. He is still a bone in the throat of literature for many reasons. He's trying to clean up his mess in this poem- the mess he left by inspiring a lot of middle-class kids to write their despair in the "style" of Bukowski.

There is something wonderful in a poet who inspires this kind of imitation and something horrible, too. That's Bukowski's curse. There is a great deal of value in opening up the flood gates of poetry and letting in the deluge. Just as there's something wonderful in the idea of the internet allowing us all to write whatever we want in fits and starts of self expression.

But there's a cautionary tale here, too, because not everything you read on the internet is worth your time-- it's ill conceived, juvenile, mean-spirited and banal (and that's the nicest thing one can say about it.) The same goes for poetry. Bukowski saw this. Just because he had a bottle of beer in his hand, a sex drive and a voice full of gravel does not mean he should be taken at face value like so much of the imitative poetry he inadvertently fathered.

Sometimes, though, his poems, his imitators and the internet yield up diamonds that would have been ignored or hidden forever. Remember Keats with "Chapman's Homer"? When you find the hidden diamonds you are struck with profound awe. Bukowski can do that to you, too.

Here's a good Bukowski quote: "If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."

You can find more Bukowski here: www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/charles-bukowski

Number 42: Alberto Blanco "The Parakeets"

The Parakeets

They talk all day
and when it starts to get dark
they lower their voices
to converse with their own shadows
and with the silence.

They are like everybody
—the parakeets—
all day chatter,
and at night bad dreams.

With their gold rings
on their clever faces,
brilliant feathers
and the heart restless
with speech...

They are like everybody,
—the parakeets—
the ones that talk best
have separate cages.

--Alberto Blanco
translated by W. S. Merwin

Hap Notes: Mexican poet Alberto Blanco (born 1951) is not only a writer of poems, essays and children's books. He is also an artists who makes collages, sculpts and paints. He has been in a couple of rock/jazz groups as a singer and/or keyboardist. (It seems almost obligatory for people to be in a band at one point in their lives now, doesn't it?)

Blanco is a busy guy with art shows, writing, poetry readings, seminar teaching and the like. He's published many books of poetry and they have been translated into at least a dozen languages. A man of many interests, he studied chemistry and philosophy in college and got his Master's degree in Asian Studies.

His poetry can be about anything in his line of vision. His knowledge in so many fields gives him a wide range of subjects. He is particularly adept at zen-like conclusions.

In this poem he gives you things to think about. How and why does one converse with silence? Why is the heart restless with speech?

Here's a Blanco quote: "But, is there such a thing as an innocent work of art? No, because a work of art is a wicked proposal that is at once both an arrival and a departure..."


(The parakeet pictures at the top of the blog are my pals Dave (the green one) and Steve. Dave passed on about a year ago- he lived 10 lively curious years. Steve is a slow starter but he loves hearing the Ramayana aloud when I read it.)

Number 41: Gjertrud Schnackenberg "The Paperweight"

The Paperweight

The scene within the paperweight is calm,
A small white house, a laughing man and wife,
Deep snow. I turn it over in my palm
And watch it snowing in another life,

Another world, and from this scene learn what

It is to stand apart: she serves him tea

Once and forever, dressed from head to foot

As she is always dressed. In this toy, history

Sifts down through the glass like snow, and we

Wonder if her single deed tells much

Or little of the way she loves, and whether he

Sees shadows in the sky. Beyond our touch,

Beyond our lives, they laugh, and drink their tea.

We look at them just as the winter night

With its vast empty spaces bends to see

Our isolated little world of light,

Covered with snow, and snow in clouds above it,

And drifts and swirls too deep to understand.

Still, I must try to think a little of it,

With so much winter in my head and hand.


-- Gjertrud Schnackenberg

Hap Notes: Gjerturd Schnackenberg (born 1953) is a mighty sharp cookie and this poem is loaded with insights. Her earlier poetry has often been criticized as being too much like Robert Lowell's (which really doesn't sound that bad to me, actually) but this poem strikes a perfect balance between Lowell and Frost.

There is no way you can closely read this poem without being seduced into some deep introspection. There's so much stuff going on here; the cold, the people forever poised in their lives and "beyond our touch" in the snow globe. Then the poem turns asking if the husband can see "shadows in the sky"- from our hands ( and perhaps more?) The poem turns again and speaks of the winter night bending to see our winter lives covered with snow, with "drifts and swirls." The poet speaks of winter in the head and hand and we go back to the couple in the globe- untouchable in their eternal winter, and the poet? Lots of stuff to think on.

Schnackenberg has taught at a number of colleges and was Writer-in-Residence at Smith College and a visiting fellow at St. Catherine's at Oxford. She is highly literate and intelligent and her poetry reflects her deep reading skills and knowledge. She has won a number of prizes and fellowships including the Glascock Prize, the Berlin Prize and the Rome Prize in Creative literature. Much of her later poetry is somewhat eurocentric which isn't that surprising from a third generation Norwegian Lutheran whose father was a history professor.


You can find more Schnackenberg here: www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/gjertrud-schnackenberg

Number 40: Stephen Crane "The Wayfarer..."

The wayfarer,
Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
"Ha," he said,
"I see that none has passed here
In a long time."
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
"Well," he mumbled at last,
"Doubtless there are other roads."

--Stephen Crane

Hap Notes: I thought this might be an appropriate selection for MLK Day seeing as how Dr. King genuinely did speak truth to power and not everyone accepted that with grace and often reacted from fear.

Stephen Crane (1871-1900) is not as well-known for his poetry as he is for his classic novels (Red Badge of Courage, Maggie Girl of the Streets) and his short stories (The Open Boat, The Blue Hotel). Everybody read at least one of his books or stories in school if they went to a school that was even remotely literate.

I've always liked his poetry best, though. His spiny, compressed, sardonic parable-like verse is thought provoking and often elicits a wry and sad smile. He uses no rhyme and the meter is informal. It's over 100 years old yet it retains its modern detachment which isn't particularly surprising since Crane was one of the originators of the modern voice in prose; realistic, impressionistic and psychological.

Crane lived a short life (29 years) yet his output was generous; five books of fiction, two of poetry, two of war stories, three of short stories and lots of reportage. His friends included Joseph Conrad, Hamlin Garland, William Dean Howells and H.G. Wells. Hemingway was an admirer of his work.

The poem above probably needs no extra information to be understood but a good question to ask is, "Do we blame the wayfarer for not wanting to get cut/hurt? Do we accept the truth when it is painful?" The truth may set us free but it is not without peril. There is no old saying that goes, "The truth will make you safe." We maybe tend to think of truth as a simple thing but Crane implies it is not, and it is, at the very least, difficult and sharp.

Here's a good Crane quote: "Personally I am aware that my work does not amount to a string of dried beans- I always calmly admit it. But I also know that I do the best that is within me, without regard to cheers or damnation."

And another: "There is a sublime egotism in talking of honesty. I, however, do not say that I am honest. I merely say that I am as nearly honest as a weak mental machinery will allow. This aim in life struck me as being the only thing worth while. A man is sure to fail at it, but there is something in the failure."

You can read more Crane here: www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/stephen_crane/poems

Number 39: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe "The Erl King"

The Erl-King

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp’d in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
“My son, wherefore seek’st thou thy face thus to hide?”
“Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?”
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."
“Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh, come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold.”
“My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?”
“Be calm, dearest child, ’tis thy fancy deceives;
’Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves.”
“Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They’ll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep.”
“My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?”
“My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
Tis the aged gray willows deceiving thy sight.”
“I love thee, I’m charm’d by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou’rt unwilling, then force I’ll employ.”
“My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last.”
The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,—
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.

---Goethe

Hap Notes: Had I but world enough and time I would just sit around reading Goethe all day. He must have been made out of verses he wrote so many of them and most of them are awesome. And no, I didn't think you were stupid when I separated the speakers in colors for the poem- I just thought it would be easier to read if you didn't have to fight through the brambles of all those separate quotation marks.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), born in Frankfurt, Germany, was a true polymath. His I.Q. has been estimated at anywhere between 180-240. He's one of the most famous names and forces in literature so I'm assuming you've heard of him. His name is pronounced, for all intents and purposes, "Gerdta"- or at least that's close enough so that you won't be calling him 'Go-Eth'. He was an incredible intellect; he did early writings on evolution (pre-Darwin) and plant morphology, discovered a bone in the human jaw, wrote plays and poems, painted and drew, wrote influential works on color theory, and was interested in mineralogy and linguistics. Dig this- his poetry has been set to music or inspired works by Beethoven, Mozart, Berlioz, Gounoud, Listz, Wagner, Mahler, Schumann and Schubert, just to name a few.

Want something a little closer to home? You know that cute Mickey Mouse cartoon in Fantasia about the sorcerer's apprentice with the brooms and the buckets of water? That's based on a 14 stanza poem by Goethe, "Der Zauberlehrling " (or in English- the magic student or the sorcerer's apprentice), The music by Dukas was inspired by Goethe's poem.

Goethe wrote so much and was influential to so many that it's hard to explain his impact in Europe for the last couple hundred years. No European school child is unfamiliar with him (I interviewed a Norwegian techno-dance band in 2003 and the band guys were thrilled that I knew Goethe's work- Johann has still got some pull.) He's, at the very least, the Shakespeare of the German speaking world.

Goethe said he was inspired to write this poem after seeing a man taking his young son to a doctor in the middle of the night. The son was wrapped in a blanket and the man was hurrying along worriedly. You can project that the child in the poem was seeing things in the delirium of fever, if you want. But I like to think of the Erl-King as mystical and real.

The Erl-king, literally means the "Alder King." The alder is a tree (see picture above) and I like the idea of the Erl-King being a king of the woods. The images in the poem sort of point to an army of tree-creatures. However, many prefer to translate it as the "Elf King" and you can also think of him that way, too.

The Erl King/Elf King was originally found in Danish folk tales that Goethe had read. In the folk tales, the daughters are the ones trying to snare the humans.

Goethe wrote dozens of story poems and ballads like this one. We'll see more of him this year, too. If my German was better I'd have translated this myself but I stuck to one that rhymed. Many people have translated his work so you can find other versions of this poem, too.

Here's a wonderful Goethe quote: "Every day we should hear at least one little song, read one good poem, see one exquisite picture, and, if possible, speak a few sensible words."

You can not only find more Goethe here, you'll find a whole book with illustrations: oll.libertyfund.org/index.php?option=com_staticxt&staticfile=show.php%3Ftitle=2110&layout=html

Number 38: Buddhadeva Bose "Frogs"

Frogs

The rains have come, and frogs are full of glee.

They sing in chorus, in loud, jubilant voices.

Nothing to fear today: no drought, no dearth of worms, 

Nor serpent's jaw, nor stones of wanton boys.

Cloud-like, the grasses thicken: in the fields the lush waters stand;

Louder leaps their hour of brief immortality.

They have no necks, but their throats are rich and swollen; 

And o, what sleek bodies, what cold gem-like eyes!

Eyes staring upward, fixed in meditation,

Ecstatic, lidless, like rishis gazing on God.

The rain has ceased, the shadows slant;

Hymn-like floats their singing, on the slow, attentive air.

Now dies the day in silence, but a sombre drone 

Perforates the twilight; the thin sky leans to listen.

Darkness and rain: and we are warm in bed: 

Yet one unwearied phrase mingles in our sleep- 

The final sloka of the mystic chanting, 

The croak, croak, croak of the last fanatic frog.

-- Buddhadeva Bose (also translated by Bose into English)

Hap Notes: Buddhadeva Bose (1908-1974) is one of the major Bengali writers of the 20th century. He was a writing machine; he wrote novels, plays, poems, short stories, travelogues, memoirs and essays. He also wrote children's books, criticism and translations (he translated Baudelaire in Bengali). He was an editor and a publisher. You know the term "human dynamo"? It could be illustrated by his picture.

Bengali literature was influenced by the extraordinary work of Noble prize-winning writer Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) and Bose, while influenced by Tagore, was really the first to break through this and find his own voice. He inspired subsequent poets and writers to do likewise. (I'm very fond of the work of Jibanananda Das (1899-1954), one of the most popular Bengali poets and a colleague of Bose. We'll find some of his work, too.)

Bose did teach in the U.S. several times. He taught at Pennsylvania College for Women, Indiana University, Brooklyn College, Colorado University, Wesleyan College, and the University of Hawaii.

Here's what you probably need to know to understand "Frogs." A Rishi is a composer of Vedic hymns and a seer of sorts. Rishis were inspired to write through a higher state of meditative consciousness. A Sloka is a powerful two line prayer which describes the divine qualities of God.

It's a really charming poem. I love the idea of the frogs as meditative seers in the rain croaking out praises.

Here's an excerpt from Bose's Book, The Land Where I Found It All: "Our room in Ratankuthi had a large window that opened to the east. We had found it closed ever since we arrived, and had left it unopened. We were hardly ever in the rooms, and had paid scant heed to it. One afternoon, I was working at the table, plenty of wind blew in through the door in the south, yet it was very warm. Suddenly Makshirani came in and threw the window open. At once, great gusts of the untamed east winds blew away my papers, and amazed, we discovered a spectacular view lay before us. Alas, all those days we had left the window shut, and, unminding, robbed ourselves of such a feast that was ours for the taking."


You really cannot find much Bose poetry online in English but there is some here: www.kaurab.com/english/bengali_poetry/buddhadev-bose.html

Number 37: John Keats " On First Looking into Chapman's Homer"

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise —

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

--John Keats

Hap Notes: First of all, the picture of Keats (1795-1821) on the right is a 'lifemask' taken from Keats while he was very much alive in 1816- it's not one of those freaky death masks like they did of Washington or John Dillinger (there are two people who rarely occupy a sentence together!)

Keats, one of the most famous of the English Romantic poets, is talking about reading a translation of Homer by George Chapman (1559-1634). Chapman paraphrased much of the difficult dactylic hexameter of the original Greek into a more earthy and understandable English iambic pentameter or hexameter. There is nothing quite like reading a translation that reaches your heart and that's what Keats is so excited about. Keats knew Latin, most English school kids did, but not Greek. Keats had read other translations of Homer before (Pope's and Dryden's certainly). The Chapman translation was a revelation to him.

Keats' friend and teacher, Charles Cowden Clarke, gave Keats the Chapman translation and they stayed up all night reading it. Keats kept stopping in the middle of the reading to exclaim with excitement over some new passage that enchanted him. That morning, Clarke found this sonnet on the breakfast table. Keats had whipped out this (arguably) most famous of all Petrarchan sonnets in a couple of hours. (This made me exclaim aloud when I read this story!) I have no idea whether they are reading the Iliad, the Odyssey or both (Chapman translated both of them- I like to think they read both of them in one fevered sitting.)

Just imagine them staying up all night by firelight and candle-light reading this work. Have you ever read by candle-light deep into the night? There's a certain magic in it. (and a certain strain- it involves close reading.)

Keats is so excited by the translation that he mixes things up a bit. It was Balboa who "discovered" the Pacific ocean and was the first European to set eyes on it. Cortez actually first saw the Valley of Mexico from a peak in Panama in the province of Darien. Keats had been reading William Robertson's History of America and mixed up the two stories. He was going from memory and excited and tired and he came up with this brilliant poem so let's cut him a bit of historical slack here. Most of us could not write anything half so wonderful with Google and all 13 volumes of the Oxford English dictionary at our command. The point is, imagine what it was like to come over a peak of a mountain and see the vast, gorgeous expanse of the Pacific ocean for the first time- how heart-breakingly awestruck you would be.

The "new planet" he's talking about is probably Uranus which was discovered by astronomer William Herschel in 1781, important in the poem because it was not known to the ancients from the Greek isles he talks about earlier in the poem. So it's another "new" world, like the Cortez reference.

The octave (first eight lines) talks about the Greek isles and Homer, describing Homer's "territory", more or less. Homer is "deep browed" because he is thought to be brilliant and also sculptors always depict him with a brow wrinkled in thought. The sestet (last six lines) are what is called a "volta", a change as the poet now talks about the new worlds of discovery. Keats says he feels like he just discovered a "new world" with Chapman's translation.

The problem with all works that are translated is that you cannot read the words in the language yourself so you are counting on someone else with knowledge of the language to do so for you. Not everyone's translations will get the "feel" of the work- we are counting on another person to interpret each word for us, they are the filter the words are going through. When Faegle's translation of the Aeneid came out in 2006, everyone was aflutter, even now with a work written in the first century! (I liked it but I'm partial to the Fitzgerald version and the Browning version. Rolfe Humphries is good too. But the bits and pieces I've read of C.S. Lewis's version made me swoon.) My point is (yeah, I have one besides showing off how many translations of the Aeneid I've read (7)- I got obssessive) is that a good translation of a familiar work is like a bolt of divine lightning striking you. That's what Keats is so keyed up about.

I suppose I'm explaining it to death, here, since Keats' last four lines are elegantly perfect in their description.

Keats, by the by, was not a well-known poet during his short life. He trained to be a doctor, gave it up after he'd been fully trained in pharmacy and devoted his life, instead, to poetry. We'll surely do more Keats in the course of this year.

Here's a good Keats quote: "If poetry comes not as naturally as the Leaves to a tree it had better not come at all."

You can find more Keats here: www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/66