Charles Bukowski Biography

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Charles Bukowski (1920-1994), began writing at a young age and was first published in the 1940s. Then Bukowksi gave up writing for the world of work and bars, not publishing, not writing, so the myth goes, for nearly twenty years. Ten of those years were spent roaming from odd job to odd roominghouse from the East coast to the West.
The other ten years, Bukowski worked for the United States Postal Service in Los Angeles, a job that took no effort except for the strength to show up and the patience to perform mindless operations. During that time, his life bordered on insanity and death, two prevalent themes in his writing.
According to his own myth making, Bukowski returned to writing the day that he quit the Postal Service, but his bibliography shows that indeed, he had been publishing several years before that.
Bukowksi's first generally recognized publication date is in the 1960s, yet citations from the early 60s exist in Sanford Dorbin's early bibliography, and The Roominghouse Madrigals prints poems from the late 40s. The fact is that Bukowski has published extensively in various small literary publications for over thirty years. These publications exist in small numbers and are difficult if not impossible to find. Fortunately, John Martin of Black Sparrow Press has managed to cull together these poems and stories over several collections, until catching up with his contemporary writings in the 80s.
In total, there are over forty books in print written by Bukowski. Since his death on March 9, 1994, a growing number of books deal with Bukowski as a critical source and literary legend.

To the Whore Who Took My Poems

some say we should keep personal remorse from the poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this, but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

(c)1974 Charles Bukowski

Email: mcaleese81@aol.com