Posts Tagged ‘Poem’

Charles Bukowski

If I Taught Creative Writing

by Charles Bukowski


now, if you were teaching creative

writing, he asked, what would you

tell them?

I’d tell them to have an unhappy love

affair, hemorrhoids, bad teeth

and to drink cheap wine,

to keep switching the head of their

bed from wall to wall

and then I’d tell them to have

another unhappy love affair

and never to use a silk typewriter


avoid family picnics

or being photographed in a rose


read Hemingway only once,

skip Faulkner

ignore Gogol

stare at photos of Gertrude Stein

and read Sherwood Anderson in bed

while eating Ritz crackers,

realize that people who keep

talking about sexual liberation

are more frightened than you are.

listen to E. Power Biggs work the

organ on your radio while you’re

rolling Bull Durham in the dark

in a strange town

with one day left on the rent

after having given up

friends, relatives and jobs.

never consider yourself superior and /

or fair

and never try to be.

have another unhappy love affair.

watch a fly on a summer curtain.

never try to succeed.

don’t shoot pool.

be righteously angry when you

find your car has a flat tire.

take vitamins but don’t lift weights or jog.

then after all this

reverse the procedure.

have a good love affair.

and the thing

you might learn

is that nobody knows anything–

not the State, nor the mice

the garden hose or the North Star.

and if you ever catch me

teaching a creative writing class

and you read this back to me

I’ll give you a straight A

right up the pickle


Poem of the day

Posted: January 11, 2011 by gustafhesse in Poem of the day

Why do I love you, Sir?

Emily Dickinson



Why do I love you, Sir?


The wind does not require the grass

To answer -Wherefore when he pass

She cannot keep Her place.


Because he knows – and

Do not You

And We know not

Enough for Us

The Wisdom it be so


The Lightning – never asked an Eye

Wherefore it shut – when He was by

Because He knows it cannot speak

And reasons not contained

Of talk

There be – preferred by daintier folk

The Sunrise – Sire – compelleth Me

Because He’s Sunrise – and I see

Therefore – then

I love thee.




Poem of the day 10 July 2010

Posted: July 10, 2010 by gustafhesse in Poem of the day

The Second Coming

William Butler Yeats



Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.


Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its honour come round at last,

Slouches toward Bethehem to be born?


Poem of the day 25th June 2010

Posted: June 25, 2010 by gustafhesse in Poem of the day


Pablo Neruda



I am not jealous

of what came before me.


Come with a man

on your shoulders,

come with a hundred men in your hair,

come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,

come like a river

full of drowned men

which flows down to the wild sea,

to the eternal surt, to Time!


Bring them all

to where I am waiting for you;

we shall always be you and I

alone on earth,

to start our life!



Poem of the day 23rd June 2010

Posted: June 24, 2010 by gustafhesse in Poem of the day

The Shot

Elizabeth Jennings


The bullet shot me and I lay

So calm beneath the sun, the trees

Shook out their shadows in the breeze

Which carried half the sky away.


I did not know if I was dead,

A feeling close to sleep lay near

Yet through it I could see the clear

River and grass as if in bed.


I lay and watched the morning come

Gentle behind the blowing stuff

Of curtains, but the pain was rough,

Not fitting to a sunlit room.


And I am dying, then, I thought,

I felt them lift me up and take,

What seemed my body. Should I wake

And stop the darkness in my throat


And break the mist before my eyes?

I felt the bullet’s leaps and swerves,

And none is loved as he deserves

And death is a disguise.




Poem of the day 22 June 2010

Posted: June 22, 2010 by gustafhesse in Poem of the day

Angel Of Fire And Genitals

Anne Sexton


Angel of the love affair, do you that other,

the dark one, that other me?


Angel of fire and genitals, do you know slime,

that green mama who first forced me to sing,

who put me first in the latrine, that pantomine

of brown where I was beggar and she was king?

I said, ‘The devil is down that festering hole.’

Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul.

Fire woman, you of the anciet flame, you

of the bunsen burner, you of the candel,

you of the blast furnace, you of the barbecue,

you of the fierce solar energy, Mademoiselle,

take some ice, take some snow, take a month of rain

and you would gutter in the dark, cracking up your brain.

Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate

as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen it’s terrible weight.


~ Anne Sexton from Angel of the Love Affair

Poem of the day 3 June 2010

Posted: June 3, 2010 by gustafhesse in Poem of the day

A Woman Waits for Me

By Walt Whitman

(1819 – 1892)



A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the
right man were lacking.


Sex contains all, bodies, souls,
Meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk,
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, all the passions, loves,
beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth,
These are contain’d in sex as parts of itself and justifications of itself.


Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex,
Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

Now I will dismiss myself from impassive woman,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that
are warm-blooded and sufficient for me,
I see that they understand me and do not deny me,
I see that they are worthy of me, I will be the robust husband of
those women.


They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tann’d in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,
retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own right–they are calm, clear,
well-possess’d of themselves.


I draw you close to me, you woman,
I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for
others’ sakes,
Envelop’d in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.


It is I, you woman, I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable, but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for these States, I
press with slow rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually, I listen to no entreaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated within me.


Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,
The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls,
new artists, musicians, and singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you
inter-penetrate now,
I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I
count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,
immortality, I plant so lovingly now.



Poem of the day 23rd May 2010

Posted: May 23, 2010 by gustafhesse in Poem of the day

An Invite, to Eternity

Wilt thou go with me, sweet maid

Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me

Through the valley-depths of shade,

Of night and dark obscurity;

Where the path has lost its way,

Where the sun forgets the day,

Where there’s nor life nor light to see,

Sweet  maiden, wilt thou go with me?


Where stones will turn to flooding streams,

Where plains will rise like ocean waves,

Where life will fade like visioned dreams

And mountains darken into caves,

Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me

Through this sad non-identity,

Where parents live and are forgot,

And sisters live and know us not?


Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me

In this strange death and be the same,

Without this life or home or name,

At once to be and not to be –

That was and is not – yet to see

Things pass like shadows, and the sky

Above, below, around us lie?


The land of shadows wilt thou trace,

And look – nor know each other’s face;

The present mixed with reason gone,

And past and present all as one?

Say, maiden, can thy life be led

To join the living with the dead?

Then trace thy footsteps on with me;

We’re wed to one eternity.   

~ John Clare (1793 – 1864)


by Charles Bukowski
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
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
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
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
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-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
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.

I just wanted to share this with all the aspiring writers out there.

Poem of the day 21st May 2010

Posted: May 21, 2010 by gustafhesse in Poem of the day

I Crave  Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

Pablo Neruda 


I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

~ Pablo Neruda