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What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire
“The Walt Whitman of Los Angeles.”—Joyce Carol Oates, bestselling author
“He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels.”—Leonard Cohen, songwriter
What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire is the second posthumous collection from Charles Bukowski that takes readers deep into the raw, wild vein of writing that extends from the early 1970s to the 1990s.
“He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels.”—Leonard Cohen, songwriter
What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire is the second posthumous collection from Charles Bukowski that takes readers deep into the raw, wild vein of writing that extends from the early 1970s to the 1990s.
416 pages, Kindle Edition
First published June 5, 1999
523 people are currently reading
11217 people want to read
About the author
Charles Bukowski
848 books29.6k followersHenry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 267 reviews
December 8, 2008
he's a difficult crank, too much bukowski is probably not good for the mental health, but there is beauty in the ugliness. or there is truth, which is sometimes the same thing. revelation.
in this book, i keep coming back to "white dog":
I went for a walk on Hollywood Boulevard.
I looked down and there was a large white dog
walking beside me.
his pace was exactly the same as mine,
we stopped at traffic signals together.
a woman smiled at us.
he must have walked 8 blocks with me.
then I went into a grocery store and
when I came out he was gone.
or she was gone.
the wonderful white dog
with a trace of yellow in its fur.
the large blue eyes were gone.
the grinning mouth was gone.
the lolling tongue was gone.
things are so easily lost.
things just can't be kept forever.
I got the blues.
I got the blues.
that dog loved and
trusted me and
I let it walk away.
in this book, i keep coming back to "white dog":
I went for a walk on Hollywood Boulevard.
I looked down and there was a large white dog
walking beside me.
his pace was exactly the same as mine,
we stopped at traffic signals together.
a woman smiled at us.
he must have walked 8 blocks with me.
then I went into a grocery store and
when I came out he was gone.
or she was gone.
the wonderful white dog
with a trace of yellow in its fur.
the large blue eyes were gone.
the grinning mouth was gone.
the lolling tongue was gone.
things are so easily lost.
things just can't be kept forever.
I got the blues.
I got the blues.
that dog loved and
trusted me and
I let it walk away.
February 22, 2011
One of my favorite poems by Bukowski in this volume, not anthologized much for some reason. There are others as well- all good and inimitably honest to whatever moment he's writing about, and sometimes humorous.
-------------------
"Born to Lose"
I was sitting in my cell
and all the guys were tattooed
BORN TO LOSE
BORN TO DIE
all of them were able to roll a cigarette
with one hand
if I mentioned Wallace Stevens or
even Pablo Neruda to them
they'd think me crazy.
I named my cellmates in my mind.
that one was Kafka
that one was Dostoyevsky
that one was Blake
that one was Celine
and that one was
Mickey Spillane.
I didn't like Mickey Spillane.
sure enough that night at lights out
Mickey and I had a fight over who got the
top bunk
the way it ended neither of us got the top bunk
we both got the hole.
after I got out of solitary I made
an appointment with the warden.
I told him I was a writer
a sensitive and gifted soul
and that I wanted to work in the library.
he gave me two more days in the hole.
when i got out I worked in the shoe factory.
I worked with Van Gogh, Schopenhauer, Dante
Robert Frost
and Karl Marx.
and they put Spillane in license plates.
-------------------
"Born to Lose"
I was sitting in my cell
and all the guys were tattooed
BORN TO LOSE
BORN TO DIE
all of them were able to roll a cigarette
with one hand
if I mentioned Wallace Stevens or
even Pablo Neruda to them
they'd think me crazy.
I named my cellmates in my mind.
that one was Kafka
that one was Dostoyevsky
that one was Blake
that one was Celine
and that one was
Mickey Spillane.
I didn't like Mickey Spillane.
sure enough that night at lights out
Mickey and I had a fight over who got the
top bunk
the way it ended neither of us got the top bunk
we both got the hole.
after I got out of solitary I made
an appointment with the warden.
I told him I was a writer
a sensitive and gifted soul
and that I wanted to work in the library.
he gave me two more days in the hole.
when i got out I worked in the shoe factory.
I worked with Van Gogh, Schopenhauer, Dante
Robert Frost
and Karl Marx.
and they put Spillane in license plates.
July 8, 2014
Bukowski lived a tough life
but had his fun
and jesus could he write it down.
Real real real.
but had his fun
and jesus could he write it down.
Real real real.
June 22, 2020
and when love came to us twice
and lied to us twice
we decided to never love again
that was fair
fair to us
and fair to love itself.
and lied to us twice
we decided to never love again
that was fair
fair to us
and fair to love itself.
June 7, 2007
Reading Bukowski is like hanging around drunk in the broke-down, decrepit, sun-drenched underworld of Los Angeles; listening to Mahler and betting your last five dollars on a horse named after a stripper you used to know. But you don't get dirty or hung-over, and the only ill-effect is a new-found empathy for the damned.
November 14, 2015
"precious grenades inside my skull,
I’d rather grow roses than nurture self-pity,
but sometimes it really begins to tell on me
and I have visions of house trailers and
hookers slipping into giant volcanic cracks
just south of Santa Barbara. "
I found out this was another posthumously released volume of previously unreleased works. I cursed myself, I had done it again. Last time was no success, so why would this be any better? Thankfully it is human to err and so I had. This turned out to be so much better. It still has its icky spots, its cases of somewhat mediocre poetry, but again I can't blame Bukowski, all I can do is blame the sons of bitches who decided it was gonna go in a book.
Where 'Bone Palace Ballet' left me somewhat cold and indifferent, this collection got me thinking. it had me wondering, contemplating and considering a hundred things. You can say many favorable and less favorable things about Bukowski's writing, but it's honest, it's bullshit free and it's not afraid of anything or anyone. It's a wild beast seeking absolution. It's a tired man seeking salvation. And I feel a heart beating in this book, I can picture the complexities of the man who wrote it, and that's why it's good. It's way more relevant than Bone Palace Ballet ever was.
"planet earth: where
Christ came
and
never experienced
sex with a
woman or a
man. "
I liked some parts, loved others, and even the poems I found dull still provoked me and made me see something I hadn't before (well, most of them, there's still a lot about horses and going to the track, and i cannot for the life of me give a damn about it). It takes a lot of guts to present oneself in a light so unsavory, and to be so honest about the tragedy, but also the joy of the life you lead. It's a very human, and more humble, Bukowski we meet, I think. Or perhaps the collection is simply put together that way.
Here's a man who's accepted who he is, and has found a way to evade insanity. He writes it all down instead.
This book also contains a few poems directed at his fans and it's pretty hilarious and illuminating to read what he has to say to the people who adored(/adores) his writing and saw him as a hero. And these are not, perhaps, poems he would have published himself, so I guess that's another thing in favor of this book.
I can recommend it, not exactly as a starting point, but if you're a fan, you won't want to miss it. I still have to get my hands on a poetry collection Bukowski published while he was still alive. This was good, but I long to see him at his best. I leave you with this utterly incredible poem:
"she comes from somewhere
probably from the bellybutton or from the
shoe under the
bed, or maybe from the mouth of the shark or
from the car crash on the avenue that leaves blood
and memories
scattered on the grass.
she comes from love gone wrong under an
asphalt moon.
she comes from screams stuffed with cotton.
she comes from hands without arms
and arms without bodies
and bodies without hearts.
she comes out of cannons and shotguns and
old victrolas.
she comes from parasites with blue eyes and
soft voices.
she comes out from under the organ like a roach.
she keeps coming.
she’s inside of sardine cans and letters.
she’s under your fingernails pressing blue and flat.
she’s the signpost on the barricade
smeared in brown.
she’s the toy soldiers inside your head
poking their lead bayonets.
she’s the first kiss and the last kiss and
the dog’s guts spilling like a river.
she comes from somewhere and she never
stops
coming.
me, and that
old woman:
sorrow."
I’d rather grow roses than nurture self-pity,
but sometimes it really begins to tell on me
and I have visions of house trailers and
hookers slipping into giant volcanic cracks
just south of Santa Barbara. "
I found out this was another posthumously released volume of previously unreleased works. I cursed myself, I had done it again. Last time was no success, so why would this be any better? Thankfully it is human to err and so I had. This turned out to be so much better. It still has its icky spots, its cases of somewhat mediocre poetry, but again I can't blame Bukowski, all I can do is blame the sons of bitches who decided it was gonna go in a book.
Where 'Bone Palace Ballet' left me somewhat cold and indifferent, this collection got me thinking. it had me wondering, contemplating and considering a hundred things. You can say many favorable and less favorable things about Bukowski's writing, but it's honest, it's bullshit free and it's not afraid of anything or anyone. It's a wild beast seeking absolution. It's a tired man seeking salvation. And I feel a heart beating in this book, I can picture the complexities of the man who wrote it, and that's why it's good. It's way more relevant than Bone Palace Ballet ever was.
"planet earth: where
Christ came
and
never experienced
sex with a
woman or a
man. "
I liked some parts, loved others, and even the poems I found dull still provoked me and made me see something I hadn't before (well, most of them, there's still a lot about horses and going to the track, and i cannot for the life of me give a damn about it). It takes a lot of guts to present oneself in a light so unsavory, and to be so honest about the tragedy, but also the joy of the life you lead. It's a very human, and more humble, Bukowski we meet, I think. Or perhaps the collection is simply put together that way.
Here's a man who's accepted who he is, and has found a way to evade insanity. He writes it all down instead.
This book also contains a few poems directed at his fans and it's pretty hilarious and illuminating to read what he has to say to the people who adored(/adores) his writing and saw him as a hero. And these are not, perhaps, poems he would have published himself, so I guess that's another thing in favor of this book.
I can recommend it, not exactly as a starting point, but if you're a fan, you won't want to miss it. I still have to get my hands on a poetry collection Bukowski published while he was still alive. This was good, but I long to see him at his best. I leave you with this utterly incredible poem:
"she comes from somewhere
probably from the bellybutton or from the
shoe under the
bed, or maybe from the mouth of the shark or
from the car crash on the avenue that leaves blood
and memories
scattered on the grass.
she comes from love gone wrong under an
asphalt moon.
she comes from screams stuffed with cotton.
she comes from hands without arms
and arms without bodies
and bodies without hearts.
she comes out of cannons and shotguns and
old victrolas.
she comes from parasites with blue eyes and
soft voices.
she comes out from under the organ like a roach.
she keeps coming.
she’s inside of sardine cans and letters.
she’s under your fingernails pressing blue and flat.
she’s the signpost on the barricade
smeared in brown.
she’s the toy soldiers inside your head
poking their lead bayonets.
she’s the first kiss and the last kiss and
the dog’s guts spilling like a river.
she comes from somewhere and she never
stops
coming.
me, and that
old woman:
sorrow."
September 1, 2013
Bukowski is back with another epic collection of idiosyncratic poetry. The poems published in the collection were written between 1970 and 1990, and they were part of an archive that the great poet left behind to be published after his death.
As always, it's fascinating to see the way in which Bukowski used simple (and often profane) language in such a powerful way - his poems don't read like Shakespeare, they read like Bukowski talked, and that's what gives them their power. Bukowski wasn't a poet or a novelist - he was a storyteller, and it barely matters whether you're reading his prose or his poetry.
Take the first poem in the collection, for example - 'my father and the bum'. Bukowski had a troubled relationship with his father, who used to bully him as a child - here, we see his father's pride, and the way in which the opinions of his friends weighed heavy on him. Bukowski says: "My father believed in work. He was proud to have a job. Sometimes he didn't have a job and then he was very ashamed. He'd be so ashamed that he'd leave the house in the morning and then come back in the evening so the neighbours wouldn't know."
Of course, it's no secret that Bukowski hated his father - you would have too, the man, by all accounts, was a bastard. Just how extreme that hatred was is shown by his depiction of his father's cruelty: "My father caught the baby mice - they were still alive and he flung them in to the flaming incinerator, one by one. The flames leaped out and I wanted to throw my father in there, but my being 10 years old made that impossible."
But let's get back to the book as a whole. It was published by Black Sparrow Press, the legendary poetry firm that was formed by John Martin, ostensibly to publish Bukowski's work. According to Wikipedia (and Born in to This, a documentary about the poet), John Martin offered Bukowski $100 per month for life on the condition that he'd stop working for the post office and write full time. Bukowski agreed, and shortly afterwards started work on Post Office, his first novel which was inspired by his time with the company.
As always, it's fascinating to see the way in which Bukowski used simple (and often profane) language in such a powerful way - his poems don't read like Shakespeare, they read like Bukowski talked, and that's what gives them their power. Bukowski wasn't a poet or a novelist - he was a storyteller, and it barely matters whether you're reading his prose or his poetry.
Take the first poem in the collection, for example - 'my father and the bum'. Bukowski had a troubled relationship with his father, who used to bully him as a child - here, we see his father's pride, and the way in which the opinions of his friends weighed heavy on him. Bukowski says: "My father believed in work. He was proud to have a job. Sometimes he didn't have a job and then he was very ashamed. He'd be so ashamed that he'd leave the house in the morning and then come back in the evening so the neighbours wouldn't know."
Of course, it's no secret that Bukowski hated his father - you would have too, the man, by all accounts, was a bastard. Just how extreme that hatred was is shown by his depiction of his father's cruelty: "My father caught the baby mice - they were still alive and he flung them in to the flaming incinerator, one by one. The flames leaped out and I wanted to throw my father in there, but my being 10 years old made that impossible."
But let's get back to the book as a whole. It was published by Black Sparrow Press, the legendary poetry firm that was formed by John Martin, ostensibly to publish Bukowski's work. According to Wikipedia (and Born in to This, a documentary about the poet), John Martin offered Bukowski $100 per month for life on the condition that he'd stop working for the post office and write full time. Bukowski agreed, and shortly afterwards started work on Post Office, his first novel which was inspired by his time with the company.
August 23, 2017
"I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I offered you what was left of me
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons & our nights
our bodies spilled together sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever"
<3
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I offered you what was left of me
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons & our nights
our bodies spilled together sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever"
<3
September 2, 2025
I’m not sure what words I can find which will efficiently deliver the necessary admiration for Bukowski’s poems here. Nothing I have to say can express enough veneration.
“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start.”
Let me know if you find the words. I’ll be waiting in this dark room on the edge of my seat, ready to assimilate.
Hm, what’s that? What were my favourite poems? I’m so glad that you asked...
• My father and the bum
• legs, hips and behind
• the people
• the railroad yard
• man’s best friend
• some notes on Bach and Haydn
• lifedance
• everywhere, everywhere
• when violets roar at the sun
• the professionals
• the circus of death
• Christmas poem to a man in jail
• snake eyes?
• this moment
• the 12 hour night
• the last poetry reading
• assault
• guess who?
• In this city now-
• Captain Goodwine
• hard times on Carlton Way
• we needed him
• the dangerous ladies
• life of a king
• nobody home
• hanging there on the wall
• a touch of steel
• the way it works
• mean and stingy
• the icecream people
• the ordinary cafe of the world
• the crunch (2)
• farewell my lovely
• comments upon my last book of poesy:
• a correction to a lady of poesy:
• on lighting a cigar
• wasted
• a vote for the gentle light
• trouble in the night
• in this cage some songs are born
• roll the dice
“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start.”
Let me know if you find the words. I’ll be waiting in this dark room on the edge of my seat, ready to assimilate.
Hm, what’s that? What were my favourite poems? I’m so glad that you asked...
• My father and the bum
• legs, hips and behind
• the people
• the railroad yard
• man’s best friend
• some notes on Bach and Haydn
• lifedance
• everywhere, everywhere
• when violets roar at the sun
• the professionals
• the circus of death
• Christmas poem to a man in jail
• snake eyes?
• this moment
• the 12 hour night
• the last poetry reading
• assault
• guess who?
• In this city now-
• Captain Goodwine
• hard times on Carlton Way
• we needed him
• the dangerous ladies
• life of a king
• nobody home
• hanging there on the wall
• a touch of steel
• the way it works
• mean and stingy
• the icecream people
• the ordinary cafe of the world
• the crunch (2)
• farewell my lovely
• comments upon my last book of poesy:
• a correction to a lady of poesy:
• on lighting a cigar
• wasted
• a vote for the gentle light
• trouble in the night
• in this cage some songs are born
• roll the dice
March 4, 2014
My friend Todd recently recommended this book to me during our most recent book club. Thankfully, my lovely bibliophile hubby actually had this book in his possession.
I am not usually into reading poetry--I would much rather make my own bad poetry or scrub toilets, but this book of poetry immediately captured my attention and retained it all throughout.
This seems like a hefty volume at first glance, but don't let it put you off. It is an amazingly quick read. I finished it in a couple days, even with 3 kids screaming at me.
There is so much incredible insight in this book of poems. Some of the poems, or perhaps most of them, were terribly misogynistic and douchey, and made me a bit frustrated, so I had to just take a few deep breaths here and there...How could Bukowski think so much of himself, yet hate himself at the same time? Does his consideration of women extend beyond their sexual appeal? Bukowski exemplifies the "dirty old man" stereotype. His words, despite their coarseness and brutality are resoundingly and remarkably beautiful, authentic and honest.
Overall, I very much enjoyed it. This is my first Bukowski, and I look forward to reading more of his work.
I am not usually into reading poetry--I would much rather make my own bad poetry or scrub toilets, but this book of poetry immediately captured my attention and retained it all throughout.
This seems like a hefty volume at first glance, but don't let it put you off. It is an amazingly quick read. I finished it in a couple days, even with 3 kids screaming at me.
There is so much incredible insight in this book of poems. Some of the poems, or perhaps most of them, were terribly misogynistic and douchey, and made me a bit frustrated, so I had to just take a few deep breaths here and there...How could Bukowski think so much of himself, yet hate himself at the same time? Does his consideration of women extend beyond their sexual appeal? Bukowski exemplifies the "dirty old man" stereotype. His words, despite their coarseness and brutality are resoundingly and remarkably beautiful, authentic and honest.
Overall, I very much enjoyed it. This is my first Bukowski, and I look forward to reading more of his work.
May 11, 2024
Title: Navigating Life's Flames: A Review of "What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire" by Charles Bukowski
Rating: ★★★★★
In "What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire," Charles Bukowski, the legendary poet and author, invites readers on a raw and unflinching journey through the highs and lows of the human experience. This collection of poems and prose captures Bukowski's trademark blend of gritty realism, dark humor, and profound insight, offering a poignant exploration of love, loss, longing, and redemption.
“Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.”
― Charles Bukowski, What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire
Rating: ★★★★★
In "What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire," Charles Bukowski, the legendary poet and author, invites readers on a raw and unflinching journey through the highs and lows of the human experience. This collection of poems and prose captures Bukowski's trademark blend of gritty realism, dark humor, and profound insight, offering a poignant exploration of love, loss, longing, and redemption.
“Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.”
― Charles Bukowski, What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire
September 16, 2018
all theories
like cliches
shot to hell,
all these small faces
looking up
beautiful and believing;
I wish to weep
but sorrow is
stupid.
I wish to believe but belief is a
graveyard.
we have narrowed it down to
the butcherknife and the
mockingbird
wish us
luck.
In one sentence: Just a man in a room - odd, then, that this is enough to make people read them voluntarily, religiously, unlike almost all contemporary poetry with their bigger brains and better politics and more eventful stories and uplifting messages.
To be read when: you can't sleep and it's 2am and tomorrow's going to be a pain in the arse and you're alone in the house; no better book then.
Unbeatable at sliding through the mind with zero friction, depositing emotional silt and cheap, warm style from a previously insane and helpfully hopeless man in you – whatever you want that for. More than any other poet, he just literally talks to you. You can roll your eyes at his gaucheness and despise his chauvinism and feel nothing all you like: that's fine. It doesn't matter. It's not the point.
So it's barely art, but he knows it. Pity any academic working on CB: these poems don't invite analysis; they are worn on their own surface. They mean just what they first mean. Many of them are just about writing poems, but I cannot resent their hollowness, since emptiness is his brush. Its main virtue is complete honesty.
...so much has gone by for most of us,
even the young, especially the young
for they have lost the beginning and have
the rest of the way to go;
but isn’t it strange, all i can think of now are
cucumbers, oranges, junk yards, the
old Lincoln Heights jail and
the lost loves that went so hard
and almost brought us to the edge,
the faces now without features,
the love beds forgotten.
the mind is kind: it retains the
important things:
cucumbers
oranges
junk yards
jails.
...there used to be over 100 of us in that big room
in that jail
i was in there many
times.
you slept on the floor
men stepped on your face on the way to piss.
always a shortage of cigarettes.
names called out during the night
(the few lucky ones who were bailed out)
never you.
...when love came to us twice
and lied to us twice
we decided to never love again
that was fair
fair to us
and fair to love itself.
we ask for no mercy or no
miracles;
we are strong enough to live
and to die and to
kill flies,
attend the boxing matches, go to the racetrack,
live on luck and skill,
get alone, get alone often,
and if you can’t sleep alone
be careful of the words you speak in your sleep;
and
ask for no mercy
no miracles;
and don’t forget:
time is meant to be wasted,
love fails
and death is useless
Everything that people mock Leonard Cohen for is much more true of Bukowski (misery, drawling, self-obsession, archness, chauvinism, treating the whole world as your confessional); he is just more direct and macho about it; that fact, and the very different crowd surrounding his medium is enough to earn him contempt rather than mockery. (And contempt is a kind of involuntary respect.) Backwards analogy: Bukowski is Tom Waits minus gospel, minus FX pedals, minus Brecht and Weill, minus one steady Kathleen peer. And minus metre of course. A grumpy adolescent old man; a sensitising misanthrope; a beautiful lech.
He has only two modes: midnight countercultural raving and laconic woke-at-noon observation. Neither would work without his lecherousness and/or meanness and/or arrogance; they are the absolutely necessary breve before he blares out his concern.
moments of agony and moments of glory
march across my roof.
the cat walks by
seeming to know everything.
my luck has been better, I think,
than the luck of the cut gladiolus,
although I am not sure.
I have been loved by many women,
and for a hunchback of life,
that’s lucky.
so many fingers pushing through my hair
so many arms holding me close
so many shoes thrown carelessly on my bedroom
rug.
so many searching hearts
now fixed in my memory that
i’ll go to my death,
remembering.
I have been treated better than I should have
been—
not by life in general
nor by the machinery of things
but by women.
but there have been other women
who have left me
standing in the bedroom alone
doubled over—
hands holding the gut—
thinking
why why why why why why?
women go to men who are pigs
women go to men with dead souls
women go to men who fuck badly
women go to shadows of men
women go
go
because they must go
in the order of
things.
the women know better
but often chose out of
disorder and confusion.
they can heal with their touch
they can kill what they touch and
I am dying
but not dead
yet.
(That ^ might have gotten your back up, because it pattern-matches to modern whining about women's choices. But it isn't that: remember, from above, that he is calling himself a pig and a dead soul.)
This is three books written over thirty years, one sentence per ten lines as always, stapled together to give the impression of a late-life opus. It covers the whole lot: his Great Depression origin myth; his meaningless, crabbed middle years; and his long, long late period spent in contempt of the arty people who pay and applaud him.
I am nothing like him, except maybe in sense of humour. He is not anti-modern - grew up through the Great Depression, a simulation of pre-modern subsistence; loves shit cars; lives for late night recorded music - but science, growth, and the expanding circle give him nothing of the sense of direction, transcendence and hope that it gives to me and mine. But still I "relate", as the disgusting verb puts it.
I have read this a half-dozen times in a dozen years. (It isn't hard; it takes an hour.) I know of no better poet to begin to explain why poetry is good and unique and feeds life. This surely says something about my character, but I don't expect to stop reading it.
PS: Bukowski's epitaph is "Don't try". On the face of it that's mean and funny and fine, but it also means what Yoda means by it: Don't force it; Don't betray your nature; Do only what you are absolutely aligned behind. Is that good advice? Maybe not, but it is epitomises the man more than the nihilistic joke.
Galef type:
Values 3 - written from a holistic value structure, letting you experience that value structure from the inside.
May 10, 2020
What a title! I read this during the Coronavirus madness and the title fits that situation perfectly. This was a collection created after Bukowski died and they've done a good job pulling together material that showed his mood in those years. From unwanted visitors telling him how great he is to freeloading friends trying to get a few bucks from him to his cats. Each time I read one of his poems about cats I can see how much he lived his life like a cat, eating, drinking, going after ladies and then spending the rest of his time chilling.
There are a number of pieces here about death, other writers, artists, friends, women, his mother and his own. Highlight of mine was him describing himself as being in no hurry to meet death, he'll just sit there drinking wine and watch the stars whilst waiting for Death to make its move. He is also very open about himself and tries to explain why he is like he is, "beast" is incredible, it leaves you with a lump in your chest.
Favourite poem for me in this book was "lifedance"
"the area dividing the brain and the soul
is affected in many ways by
experience--
some lose all mind and become soul:
insane.
some lose all soul and become mind:
intellectual.
some lose both and become:
accepted."
There is so much in this book, how one man could right so much that could have meaning to so many people is mind blowing. The man was a genius and this book rocks!
Blog review: https://felcherman.wordpress.com/2020...
There are a number of pieces here about death, other writers, artists, friends, women, his mother and his own. Highlight of mine was him describing himself as being in no hurry to meet death, he'll just sit there drinking wine and watch the stars whilst waiting for Death to make its move. He is also very open about himself and tries to explain why he is like he is, "beast" is incredible, it leaves you with a lump in your chest.
Favourite poem for me in this book was "lifedance"
"the area dividing the brain and the soul
is affected in many ways by
experience--
some lose all mind and become soul:
insane.
some lose all soul and become mind:
intellectual.
some lose both and become:
accepted."
There is so much in this book, how one man could right so much that could have meaning to so many people is mind blowing. The man was a genius and this book rocks!
Blog review: https://felcherman.wordpress.com/2020...
September 20, 2011
If you are afraid to break the bubble you are living in and transcending the bullshit, Bukowski is not the one for you. His compilation of poetry is blunt and depressing, yet more real than anything I have ever read. Bukowski has truly nothing to hide and his poetry gets down to the truth. Although he comes off as a very isolated and depressed individual, I can really understand where he is coming from as well as his trouble relating to society. What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire is a perfect example of finding beauty in the ugly.
November 3, 2007
too much
too little
or too late
too fat
too thin
or too bad
laughter or
tears
or immaculate
unconcern...
-from "the crunch (2)"
'nuff said
too little
or too late
too fat
too thin
or too bad
laughter or
tears
or immaculate
unconcern...
-from "the crunch (2)"
'nuff said
January 14, 2011
This one has some of my favorite Bukowski poems. At the end of almost all of them you are left with the feeling that he has lifted the veil and shown the world for what it truly is.
August 23, 2017
‘What Matters Most….’ is quite evidently one of his last collections of poems; there’s a more somber and reflective mood, typical of a man nearing the end, slowly moving past his regrets, yet with a fire burning bright, deep down.
I guess what makes his poems so special is that most of us can relate to them, because he draws out the beauty, harshness and loneliness that exists even in the most everyday situations: at the racetrack, at the car wash witnessing a bird’s death, playing with his child, sitting in jail, at a poetry reading, or watching a woman from a window.
A lot of the poems feel like communion from one lonely soul to another, reminding us of the beauty of isolation....
…..we both understand that death is
not the
tragedy.
you are alone and I am
alone
and its best that we aren’t
together
comparing our pitiful
sorrows
....or simply, inspirational advice such as in 12 hour night where he writes about how he walked out on the working man’s grind, and how it ended up being his best decision ever.
I think most of us secretly wait for the day that we can live with the same sense of feeling that Bukowski did.
I guess what makes his poems so special is that most of us can relate to them, because he draws out the beauty, harshness and loneliness that exists even in the most everyday situations: at the racetrack, at the car wash witnessing a bird’s death, playing with his child, sitting in jail, at a poetry reading, or watching a woman from a window.
A lot of the poems feel like communion from one lonely soul to another, reminding us of the beauty of isolation....
…..we both understand that death is
not the
tragedy.
you are alone and I am
alone
and its best that we aren’t
together
comparing our pitiful
sorrows
....or simply, inspirational advice such as in 12 hour night where he writes about how he walked out on the working man’s grind, and how it ended up being his best decision ever.
I think most of us secretly wait for the day that we can live with the same sense of feeling that Bukowski did.
July 28, 2025
Excellent posthumous collection.
Loved to hear Buk reflect on his childhood, being a young man, jobs and all kinds of things. One of my favorite poems was a poem called, "the poetry reading." Enlightening because I knew Buk, did a few poetry readings to promote his books.
Always sage-like and reflective.
Loved to hear Buk reflect on his childhood, being a young man, jobs and all kinds of things. One of my favorite poems was a poem called, "the poetry reading." Enlightening because I knew Buk, did a few poetry readings to promote his books.
Always sage-like and reflective.
December 27, 2011
My absolute favorite Bukowski book. People say he's overrated and too popular now days, and he is...he would have HATED the popularity he's managed to master in death. I appreciate him for what he is: a lowlife waste-less drunk. I respect him for that.
May 24, 2018
you must refuse to join them.
you must remain yourself.
you must open the curtains
or the blinds
or the windows
to the gentle light.
to joy.
it’s there in life
and even in death
it can be there.
you must remain yourself.
you must open the curtains
or the blinds
or the windows
to the gentle light.
to joy.
it’s there in life
and even in death
it can be there.
March 22, 2015
Most reviewers have agreed, there is no middle ground here – you either like him or you don’t. Maybe, he’s not really a poet. Maybe, in his unique and very authentic voice he is sharing his experiences from living on the streets and we have to pick the ones that speak to us.
Many, if not most of us, at one time, maybe while in grad school or in the military, ran into someone like Bukowski. If not, well, if it broadens us to understand 19th century Russians – it would not hurt to also share Bukowski’s viewpoint for a moment. Here are a few that spoke to me:
No Title
All theories like clichés shot to hell,
All these small faces looking up beautiful and believing;
I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid.
I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard.
We have narrowed it down to the butcherknife and the mockingbird.
Wish us luck.
Hunchback
Moments of agony and moments of glory march across my roof. . .
My luck has been better than the luck of the cut gladiolus, although I am not sure.
I have been loved by many women, and for a hunchback of life, that’s lucky.
. . .so many searching hearts now fixed in my memories that I’ll go to my death remembering.
I have been treated better than I should have been – not by life in general nor by the machinery of things but by women.
But there have been other women who have left me standing in the bedroom alone doubled over – holding the gut – thinking why why why why why why?
Women go because they must go in the order of things.
The women know better but often chose out of disorder and confusion.
They can heal with their touch and they can kill what they touch and I am dying
But not dead yet.
Insanity
. . . sometimes there’s a crazy one walking in the street. He slips past. . .not worried about alarm clocks or approval.
However, almost everyone else is sane, knows the answer to all the unanswerable questions. . . and can laugh at every feeble joke.
The crazy ones only laugh when there is no reason to laugh.
In our world the sane are too numerous, too submissive.
We are instructed to live lives of boredom. no matter what we are doing. . . we are numbed, sadly sane.
When you see a crazy one walking in the street honor him but leave him alone. Stand out of the way. There’s no luck like that luck
Nothing else so perfect in the world let him walked untouched
Remember Christ also was insane.
He makes me aware of things I have either long forgotten or may never have known. Although, Bukowski was at times tormented, his poetry tells me that at times he was also a gentle soul.
Many, if not most of us, at one time, maybe while in grad school or in the military, ran into someone like Bukowski. If not, well, if it broadens us to understand 19th century Russians – it would not hurt to also share Bukowski’s viewpoint for a moment. Here are a few that spoke to me:
No Title
All theories like clichés shot to hell,
All these small faces looking up beautiful and believing;
I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid.
I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard.
We have narrowed it down to the butcherknife and the mockingbird.
Wish us luck.
Hunchback
Moments of agony and moments of glory march across my roof. . .
My luck has been better than the luck of the cut gladiolus, although I am not sure.
I have been loved by many women, and for a hunchback of life, that’s lucky.
. . .so many searching hearts now fixed in my memories that I’ll go to my death remembering.
I have been treated better than I should have been – not by life in general nor by the machinery of things but by women.
But there have been other women who have left me standing in the bedroom alone doubled over – holding the gut – thinking why why why why why why?
Women go because they must go in the order of things.
The women know better but often chose out of disorder and confusion.
They can heal with their touch and they can kill what they touch and I am dying
But not dead yet.
Insanity
. . . sometimes there’s a crazy one walking in the street. He slips past. . .not worried about alarm clocks or approval.
However, almost everyone else is sane, knows the answer to all the unanswerable questions. . . and can laugh at every feeble joke.
The crazy ones only laugh when there is no reason to laugh.
In our world the sane are too numerous, too submissive.
We are instructed to live lives of boredom. no matter what we are doing. . . we are numbed, sadly sane.
When you see a crazy one walking in the street honor him but leave him alone. Stand out of the way. There’s no luck like that luck
Nothing else so perfect in the world let him walked untouched
Remember Christ also was insane.
He makes me aware of things I have either long forgotten or may never have known. Although, Bukowski was at times tormented, his poetry tells me that at times he was also a gentle soul.
February 25, 2019
If you would have told 16 year old me that there is some literature that they're not yet ready to understand, they would have been incredibly annoyed and would absolutely disagree. And yet, here I am, reading another Bukowski book, after hating Women.
And I have to admit, I saw a lot more beauty in it. I felt like I understood more of him, like his vibe made sense. That I've experienced enough of life to see what he means when he's talking about pain or mental health issues (and future me is probably rolling their eyes now, going "you've seen nothing yet"). That he's relatable, that his views on art and fame are so true. I suppose it's pretty sad to relate so much to Bukowski.
There's something beautiful about his honesty, his brutality, his lack of nuance, how unpoetic he is. It's no wonder he managed to write so much when his work feels like a stream of consciousness, as if you're sitting together in a dark shady bar and he's talking and talking and there's an overwhelming smell of cigarettes. I read this book in a vegan cafe full of natural light and pop music and I couldn't help but think it's an odd location for his voice to be in.
I was thinking about giving this book 5 stars but I simply cannot. The amount of sexism here is insane. And I can't accept this idea that true honesty, that realism, the nitty gritty of our lives is sexist. That every time Bukowski respects a woman, it's not as authentic as every time he sees a woman as a sexual object. And I realize that times have changed but you know, I feel like you can just tell that Bukowski wouldn't be happy with social justice.
So I guess 16 year old me and me now still share this in common. We need to stop admiring men whose writings are drenched with sexism and yeah, I still will probably look down a little bit on people who say he's their favorite poet (especially since e.e cummings and Allen Ginsburg exist).
There's a part of me that became incredibly sad once I saw he died. Like, it would have been comforting to know that somewhere out there, in L.A., there's this character, this being that lives this lifestyle and is considered an artist. You can really visualize him in his neighborhood. I kind of wish there were more artists like him.
what i'm taking with me
- I love that his gravestone has the words "Don't try" on in and I don't know why I love it this much.
- There's something insane about the way he simultaneously considers himself very highly and yet seems to despise himself.
- His Mahler obsession reminds me of my dad and his Van Gogh obsession reminds me of myself.
And I have to admit, I saw a lot more beauty in it. I felt like I understood more of him, like his vibe made sense. That I've experienced enough of life to see what he means when he's talking about pain or mental health issues (and future me is probably rolling their eyes now, going "you've seen nothing yet"). That he's relatable, that his views on art and fame are so true. I suppose it's pretty sad to relate so much to Bukowski.
There's something beautiful about his honesty, his brutality, his lack of nuance, how unpoetic he is. It's no wonder he managed to write so much when his work feels like a stream of consciousness, as if you're sitting together in a dark shady bar and he's talking and talking and there's an overwhelming smell of cigarettes. I read this book in a vegan cafe full of natural light and pop music and I couldn't help but think it's an odd location for his voice to be in.
I was thinking about giving this book 5 stars but I simply cannot. The amount of sexism here is insane. And I can't accept this idea that true honesty, that realism, the nitty gritty of our lives is sexist. That every time Bukowski respects a woman, it's not as authentic as every time he sees a woman as a sexual object. And I realize that times have changed but you know, I feel like you can just tell that Bukowski wouldn't be happy with social justice.
So I guess 16 year old me and me now still share this in common. We need to stop admiring men whose writings are drenched with sexism and yeah, I still will probably look down a little bit on people who say he's their favorite poet (especially since e.e cummings and Allen Ginsburg exist).
There's a part of me that became incredibly sad once I saw he died. Like, it would have been comforting to know that somewhere out there, in L.A., there's this character, this being that lives this lifestyle and is considered an artist. You can really visualize him in his neighborhood. I kind of wish there were more artists like him.
what i'm taking with me
- I love that his gravestone has the words "Don't try" on in and I don't know why I love it this much.
- There's something insane about the way he simultaneously considers himself very highly and yet seems to despise himself.
- His Mahler obsession reminds me of my dad and his Van Gogh obsession reminds me of myself.
September 11, 2012
this was on my to read shelf but i'm pretty sure i've already read it because one of my favorite bukowski poems (everywhere, everywhere) is in it, unless it's elsewhere, too
but it's all beat up like it spent a week in my purse and i found dried flowers in it(??????) so i guess i have
but i guess i'm still going to finish it
the thing about bukowski is, and i'm pretty sure i said this last time i read a book of his poems, he's overwhelmingly boring. he knew that though. most of his books only have one or two really good, memorable poems and the rest is machismo bullshit or just really, really dull. idk. i used to love him, then i used to hate him--i guess i like him now? only a little. i wouldn't be one of those women who would try to fuck him at a reading 'cause i'm sure that would be a really gross experience, on multiple levels.
----
ahhhh, a bukowski book with more than 2 poems in it i enjoyed. see: the circus of death, they arrived in time, everywhere, everywhere, a vote for the gentle light, in this cage some songs are born, a new war, raw with love, & odd
and probably others idk i didn't make a list
but it's all beat up like it spent a week in my purse and i found dried flowers in it(??????) so i guess i have
but i guess i'm still going to finish it
the thing about bukowski is, and i'm pretty sure i said this last time i read a book of his poems, he's overwhelmingly boring. he knew that though. most of his books only have one or two really good, memorable poems and the rest is machismo bullshit or just really, really dull. idk. i used to love him, then i used to hate him--i guess i like him now? only a little. i wouldn't be one of those women who would try to fuck him at a reading 'cause i'm sure that would be a really gross experience, on multiple levels.
----
ahhhh, a bukowski book with more than 2 poems in it i enjoyed. see: the circus of death, they arrived in time, everywhere, everywhere, a vote for the gentle light, in this cage some songs are born, a new war, raw with love, & odd
and probably others idk i didn't make a list
January 10, 2009
Unlike many of his devotees, I cannot say that I would like to sit and have a drink with Charles Bukowski. I think it is safe to say that from what I know of the man, it would be an unpleasant experience at best for the both of us. Some people, however troubled or misanthropic (good word choice, yeah?) they may have been in life cannot help themselves...they write beautifully. And Charles Bukowski wrote so damn beautifully. His later poems are by far my favorite, the youthful anger tempered with elderly wisdom and a little forgiveness for the human race, and it was this collection, one of many published posthumously, that first grabbed me and would not let go.
October 7, 2010
Absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. I fell in love with Bukowski's poetry all over again and I didn't even think that was possible.
Happy National Poetry Day, Chuck. I hope you know what this collection did to me and how badly I needed every slice of it.
Happy National Poetry Day, Chuck. I hope you know what this collection did to me and how badly I needed every slice of it.
June 17, 2019
It is hard to find a man
Whose poems do not
Finally disappoint you.
Բուկովսկին ոնց որ գրականության Ցոյը լինի. ինքը ընկեր ա, ում հետ առավոտը 5:30 կարաս նստես բացարձակ լռության մեջ, սուրճ խմես, նայես սեղանին, որտեղ իրար վրա դրված են մի քանի գիրք, բաժակով ջուր, մոխրաման` լիքը ծխախոտով, դու էլ սպիտակ սառոչկա ու ջինս ես հագել ու սպասում ես, մինչև աշխարհում մի բան լինի։ Ընտիր ընկեր ա, չնայած նրան, որ շներին սիրում ա, կանանց`ատում։
and there were people coughing and
laughing and swearing,
and some babbled and some prayed
and many just sat there doing
nothing,
there was nothing to do,
it was 1939 and it would never be
1939 again
in Los Angeles or any place
else
and I was young and mean and
lean
and I would never be that way
again
as it rushed toward
us.
Whose poems do not
Finally disappoint you.
Բուկովսկին ոնց որ գրականության Ցոյը լինի. ինքը ընկեր ա, ում հետ առավոտը 5:30 կարաս նստես բացարձակ լռության մեջ, սուրճ խմես, նայես սեղանին, որտեղ իրար վրա դրված են մի քանի գիրք, բաժակով ջուր, մոխրաման` լիքը ծխախոտով, դու էլ սպիտակ սառոչկա ու ջինս ես հագել ու սպասում ես, մինչև աշխարհում մի բան լինի։ Ընտիր ընկեր ա, չնայած նրան, որ շներին սիրում ա, կանանց`ատում։
and there were people coughing and
laughing and swearing,
and some babbled and some prayed
and many just sat there doing
nothing,
there was nothing to do,
it was 1939 and it would never be
1939 again
in Los Angeles or any place
else
and I was young and mean and
lean
and I would never be that way
again
as it rushed toward
us.
Read
March 6, 2025if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.
do it, do it, do it.
do it.
all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is.
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.
do it, do it, do it.
do it.
all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is.
November 24, 2012
I love Bukowski, but sometimes it feels like reiterations of the same thing. He's got his general themes: seedy sex, American poverty, back alley transactions, loneliness and despair, and he doesn't stray too far from those motifs. The poems are true to the periods he lived in, and only Bukowski can make stuff like dog fights poetic. There were some great lines, though:
"feelin' bad, kid?" he asked/yeh, yeh, yeh/"kid," he said, "I've slept longer than you've lived."
-too soon
things get bad for all of/us, almost continually/and what we do under the constant/stress/reveals/who/what we are.
-blue head of death
and when love came to us twice/and lied to us twice/we decided to never love again/that was fair/fair to us/and fair to love itself.
-on lighting a cigar
we have chosen the ordinary/withering fire/to create art means/to be crazy alone/forever.
-the ordinary cafe of the world
"feelin' bad, kid?" he asked/yeh, yeh, yeh/"kid," he said, "I've slept longer than you've lived."
-too soon
things get bad for all of/us, almost continually/and what we do under the constant/stress/reveals/who/what we are.
-blue head of death
and when love came to us twice/and lied to us twice/we decided to never love again/that was fair/fair to us/and fair to love itself.
-on lighting a cigar
we have chosen the ordinary/withering fire/to create art means/to be crazy alone/forever.
-the ordinary cafe of the world
November 21, 2023
Este es mi segundo intento leyendo este libro, desde que desistí en enero de 2022. Cuando intenté leerlo entonces sus poemas no me decían nada. ¿A quién se le ocurre leer a Bukowski mientras es feliz? Esta vez he podido apreciar a Bukowski un poco más (aunque nada se compara con la fiebre lectora que me poseyó en marzo de 2020, cuando le descubrí). Los libros que leí entonces no parecen escritos por el mismo autor; el que hoy leo parece un imitador del Bukowski que recuerdo. Quizá sea porque estos poemas fueron escritos en los años finales de su vida, cuando la tragedia y la pobreza habían sido reemplazadas por el éxito y la fama. Quizá sea porque este poemario se publicó póstumamente y sea víctima de un editor creativo. O quizá la soledad y la desesperanza ya no resuenan en mi interior con el estruendo de antaño. ¿Qué ha pasado? ¿Estos poemas son diferentes? ¿O quizá soy diferente yo?
September 7, 2024
there's just very few artists that can capture human emotion and vulnerability like bukowski. i'll never forget the first time i read this, recommended it to nearly anyone who was interested. there is a layer of nostalgia that you get when you read this, even longing or yearning for parts of life that you haven't even experienced yet.
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