Poetry Club #1: Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

In which our dead poets society begins

Boy am I excited about this! Thanks to Carla for recommending this poem by Charles Bukowski. I’ve never sat down and read ol’ Charles, and I can’t think of a better place to start our poetry club than here.

As I was saying in last week’s post, poetry is an odd duck. I don’t find myself entranced when first encountering a poem, yet I find snatches of lines I’ve encountered over the years covering the walls of my psyche like graffiti, and I want more, more, more of this.

Here’s how I’m intending on going about this: I’m going to sit down every morning out in my garden and have a read of this poem and let it sink into me. I might try memorise it; I might not. But I want to give it fertile ground lest this be one of those wonderful seeds that provide us shade our whole lives long.

Then, next week there’ll be another poem. I’d love to have you send in your favourite poems and a couple of lines (or more. or less) about why it has stuck with you, how it has wriggled its way into your flesh. I find a good story can go a long way in opening the doors of reception so this latter piece would be awesome. Thanks to Carla, Belinda and Cheryl we already have a few out, and I have a whole raft of poems beyond that to share.

As for responses…I’m not quite sure what to do. I’m thinking I’ll pin the week’s poem and then we can have chaotic free-for-all in the comment section below rather than doing a separate post for the previous week’s poem. That’s something I’m sure we can figure out along the way. Suggestions always welcome. Perhaps I should rewatch Dead Poets Society for some inspiration.

Without further ado,

Bluebird (1992) by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?