Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski is an American Poet, and Author. He was born and raised in Andernach, Germany, however it was his upbringing in Los Angeles, CA as a socially awkward, acne faced, German immigrant, that became the biggest influence on his writing. Bukowski had his first experience with alcohol when he was in his early teens. On his first encounter with alcohol he is quoted as saying, “This is going to help me for a long time.” After graduating from Los Angeles High School, Bukowski attended LA City College for two years where he studied art, journalism, and literature before quitting at the start of WWII to become a writer.

On July 22, 1944 the FBI arrested Bukowski for suspected draft evasion in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He was held for 16 days in Moyamensing Prison before failing a psychological exam that was part of his mandatory military entrance physical.

At age 24, Bukowski published his first work, a short story titled, “Aftermath of a lengthy rejection slip.” Several poorly received stories later, Bukowski started to become disillusioned with the publication process and quit writing for nearly 10 years, a time that Bukowski would later refer to as the “ten year drunk.” In 1969 Bukowski left his job as a file clerk that he held for ten years to take a job offer from Black Sparrow Press publisher John Martin. Less than one month after leaving the post office, Bukowski finished his first novel, “Post Office.” Despite major success, Bukowski published all of his future works with Black Sparrow Press, to show his gratitude to the company for taking a chance on an unknown writer.

Bukowski’s material for his later writing came mostly from his various affairs and relationships, including his romanticized relationship with alcohol. He died of Leukemia on March 9, 1994 at age 73 shortly after publishing his last novel, “Pulp.”

Bukowski’s “Bluebird” poem

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?