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When you run a Charles Bukowski fan site you end up finding out all kinds of things about the old guy you never knew.

Like, for instance, that Bukowski used to go hang out in the recently reopened Japanese Garden at The Huntington Library, in San Marino.

The Huntington, fans may recall, recently exhibited Bukowski manuscripts, and various ephemera (such as his typewriter and the radio on which he listened to classical music while he worked), in an exhibition called Charles Bukowski: Poet on the Edge.

This comes from an article in the Glendale News-Press:

The tranquil garden was a favorite stop for tough-guy poet Charles Bukowski after a day at Santa Anita. The ability to soothe that savage beast is proof positive of the site’s calming and restorative powers.

Here we see the well worn portrayal of Bukowski as tough old bastard, raging through life, which, while it holds some truth, is only a fraction of the true story of his personality.

Bukowski could be quite soft spoken and tranquil, as witnessed in numerous interviews. Still, if you asked most people to close their eyes and picture Charles Bukowski, they wouldn’t place him in the setting of a Japanese Garden.

Charles Bukowski & Buddhism

This revelation is made less surprising, however, by recalling that he took a real interest in Buddhism later in life. His funeral was even presided over by Buddhist Monks.

The influence was strong enough to show up in his work, as well, such as in his poem “As Buddha Smiles”:

as Buddha smiles the ladies in blue and green and red,

the ladies in all their colors,

circle about. there is nothing quite like

the arrogance of a

beginning writer

unless it is the conceit

of

a successful

one. anger

is but a mask

that covers

nothing. looking at her

sitting at the bar she’s the best thing

in sight: silent, blazing,

nowhere. the same sun

mixed and grinding

dancing toward what’s left of your

mind. I keep pondering the

imponderable.

Adam and Eve without belly buttons?

and if so, why? at times

small children

wake up screaming

as something

leaps toward them

that they have never

seen

before. if we can laugh, fine.

if we’ve got to cry, we’ve

got to cry. summer followed summer

flea fucked flea

as my parents

prepared themselves for an

early grave. the 3 a.m.

radio sings

as a

squadron

of diminutive

flying bugs now

rush in to

keep me

company. as the swans circle

the truly damned are the

truly talented

as the swans circle

the truly talented are the

truly damned

as the swans circle. it’s easier

to write a symphony

than it is to love

and respect

your neighbor. head down

sitting by the

fireplace

staring at my

shoes

as the wife tells me

how well I’m

doing. anybody can be a genius

at 25. at 50, it takes

some

doing. I think of Li Po

so

many centuries ago

drinking his wine

writing his poems

then

setting them

on fire

and sailing them

down the river

as the emperor

wept. I light another cigarette

and wait patiently for lady

luck to

arrive. we’ve just got to get rid of

all those poor souls

who eat pizza and go to

baseball games. I shot the cat

stole a webster’s dictionary

and ate a green apple. the same sun

mixed and grinding

dancing toward what’s left of your

mind. O my God

all that blue sky

senseless I take my prickly heart and

throw it away

as far into the dark as possible and

laugh. I am

like a bug

a dog

a flower. the knife cuts into the

sun.

the plate

breaks.

the cat yawns. the once young

hero has grown

old

as Buddha

smiles.

Whether Bukowski felt any spiritual desire to spend time in The Huntington Library’s Japanese Garden, or if he simply liked the calm and quiet after experiencing the loud, swirling mass of humanity of the track, is anyone’s guess.

But if nothing else, true devotees now have another stop to make on their Bukowski pilgrimages. Now that it is once again open to the public after a year long renovation project, fans can go check it out and picture the old man strolling along the pebble path, celebrating a victorious day, or soothing the wounds of failure.













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