Charles Bukowski, as He Lay Dying

Throughout the millennium many cultures have had the tradition of writing a death poem or a death song.  In Japan the Samurai/poets would recite their death poem as they opened their own bellies with their sword.  Death poems are typically graceful, natural, and emotionally neutral, in accordance with the teachings of Buddha.

Like a rotten log

half buried in the ground

my life, which has not flowered, comes

to this sad end.   Minamoto Yorimasa  1104-1180

Native American warriors would sing their death song as they rushed into battle.

'When it comes time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.' Unknown

In the collection of Charles Bukowski's work, Pleasures of the Damned, he wrote poetry about dying as he slowly lost his battle with cancer.  Beautiful work.  Not sad, just reality, simply Bukowski.  I have read and re-read this 500+ page tome and gone from laughing at his cat and the mocking bird to mourning his passing. (below)  I have fallen in love with this wild, derelict genius and profited by him; I am a better writer for having known him.

Sun coming down © Charles Bukowski

no one is sorry I am leaving

not even I;

but there should be a minstrel

or at least a glass of wine.

it bothers the young most, I think:

an unviolent slow death

still it makes any man dream;

you wish for an old sailing ship,

the white salt-crusted sail

and the sea shaking out hints of immortality.

sea in the nose

sea in the hair

sea in the marrow, in the eyes

and yes, there in the chest.

will we miss

the love of a woman or music or food

or the gambol of the great mad muscled

horse, kicking clods and destinies

high and away

in just one moment of the sun coming down?

but now it’s my turn

and there’s no majesty in it

because there was no majesty

before it

and each of us, like worms bitten

out of apples,

deserves no reprieve

death enters my mouth

and snakes along my teeth

and I wonder if I am frightened of

this voiceless, unsorrowful dying that is

like the drying of a rose?

And I close this post with my own simple offering.

death comes ©  Haiku by  t. sugarek

death comes silently

death comes with a loud screaming

death at his own hand

death comes suddenly

detroit's bright twisted metal

steam, fire, cold asphalt

boring death, sweet death

slow trip down a lonely road

lines drip, machines beep

History, stories, poets...they all contribute to this writer's imagination and creativity.

Interview with Charles Bukowski (posthumous)

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