Wednesday, April 16, 2008

8 Count

from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
one flies
one is left,
it too
is gone.
my typewriter is
and I am
reduced to bird
just thought I'd
let you

-Charles Bukowski


Poetry Month this year started off as a sort of hymn to Spring. Now, it appears to be turning more towards depression (specifically mine).

My shrinks have always suggested that I keep a journal of sorts. I was never able to, though, as thinking about and trying to communicate in words how I felt would put me in a rotten(er) mood. I always worried, too, about sounding like the paradoxalist in Notes from Underground.

In this format, things seem to be different. Letting other people speak for me helps. Maybe the rhythm of the arranged words helps soothe me. There's also the thought that I'm not alone in this that helps as well. Don't know. Anyway, for the moment, it's flowing well.


Simon Kenton said...

To Mr. Bukowski:

Watching a handful of does, 3 shaggy fawns, and one buck with his pedicels just starting to swell, drifting down the mountain through last night's snow. The mountain chickadees are in; and the drumming display of the flickers has begun. Heard the first calls of the male house finch late last week, and the male blackbirds are in, taking territory, and tuning up to inveigle the females, who will be here in a week or so. Perhaps your typewriter could be resurrected if you actually did watch.

Bird watching was OK for Jared Diamond and Eliot Porter, fucker.

Be said...

Gonna take one hell of a lot more than bird watching to resurrect THAT typewriter. Tough though he may have been, he ain't that tough a motherfucker.


On a similar note, walking to work about a week ago, I saw a tufted woodpecker contemplating a telephone pole. (Sorry, can't do better than that.)