(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

As The Poems Go

As the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.

User Rating: 3,0 / 5 ( 222 votes ) 18

Comments (18)

Yes! What ever I write have been written and what ever I do has been done before but that doesn’t stop me or anybody else from doing it all over again. It didn’t stop Charles either!
so, enjoy reading Bukowski. so what? that make me bad, mad or indifferent?
The man playing from the little radio begs for the words his piano is speaking, and someone, in rain or shine, through the ages has to try to say it. We just keep trying to get it right, until we leave...
Was Bukowski a poet?
True to the heart's content poem...like a lot-10
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