Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame

The title of this post is taken (yet again, shamelessly) from a collection of Charles Bukowski's selected poetry from 1955-1973. After days of working on applications and statements and grading and the like, I returned to one of my favorite poets. And, not at all to my surprise, discovered once again just how much he amazes me. Oftentimes, heads spin around, noses turn up, meaningful glances are exchanged between mutually understanding parties at the mere mention of his name, and even more so at the rather absurd suggestion that I think his stuff is worth reading again and again. So, underneath all the violent, alcoholic, womanizing, ranting, raving, tumbling, drunken, depressing, aggresive, sexist (indeed, misogynist), inappropriate, scatalogical, tiresome, deprecating, egotisical, rambling, nonsensical bullshit, sometimes one finds beauty of the most rare and mysterious persuasion.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about, that's fine. Chances are that Bukowski wouldn't have either. Here's a poem. I hope you'll consider it as much as I have...



sway with me

sway with me, everything sad --
madmen in stone houses
without doors,
lepers streaming love and song
frogs trying to figure
the sky;
sway with me, sad things --
fingers split on a forge
old age like breakfast shells
used books, used people
used flowers, used love
I need you
I need you
I need you:
it has run away
like a horse or a dog,
dead or lost
or unforgiving.