Dangling in the Tournefortia

by Charles Bukowski

"The Walt Whitman of Los Angeles." —Joyce Carol Oates, bestselling author.

"He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels." —Leonard Cohen, songwriter.

There is not a wasted word in Dangling in the Tournefortia, a selection of poems full of wit, struggles, perception, and simplicity. Charles Bukowski writes of women, gambling and booze while his words remain honest and pure.

Genres: Poetry, Fiction, American, 20th Century, The United States Of America, Classics, Contemporary

288 pages, Paperback

First published June 5, 1981

About the author

Henry 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.

Reviews

[Philip Fullmam · Rating 5 out of 5]

I do this thing when I read poetry collections, I understand it's not uncommon. When I read a poem that really resonates with me, I go to the table of contents and put a star next to the title. With this book I found I was going to put a mark next most every poem I read, it was becoming a distraction. I finally gave it up, and just read. Of all the Bukowski I have read, this is my favorite collection.

[Peycho Kanev · Rating 3 out of 5]

Yes

no matter who I’m with
people always say,
are you still with her?
my average relationship lasts
two and one half years.
with wars
inflation
unemployment
alcoholism
gambling
gambling
and my own degenerate nervousness
I think I do well enough.
I like reading the Sunday papers in bed.
I like orange ribbons tied around the cat’s neck.
I like sleeping up against a body that I know well.
I like black slips at the foot of my bed
at 2 in the afternoon.
I like seeing how the photos turned out.
I like to be helped through the holidays:
4th of July, Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving,
Christmas, New Year’s.
they know how to ride these rapids
and they are less afraid of love than I am.
they can make me laugh where professional comedians
fail.
there is walking out to buy a newspaper together.
there is much good in being alone
but there is a strange warmth in not being alone.
I like boiled red potatoes.
I like eyes and fingers better than mine that can
get knots out of shoelaces.
I like letting her drive the car on dark nights
when the road and the way have gotten to me,
the car radio on
we light cigarettes and talk about things
and now and then
become silent.
I like hairpins on tables,
on the floor.
I like knowing the same walls
the same people.
I dislike the insane and useless fights which always
occur
and I dislike myself at these times
giving nothing
understanding nothing.
I like boiled asparagus
I like radishes
green onions.
I like to put my car into a car wash.
I like it when I have ten win on a six to one
shot.
I like my radio which keeps playing
Brahms, Beethoven, Mahler.
I like it when there’s a knock on the door and
she’s there.
no matter who I’m with
people always say,
are you still with her?

they must think I bury them in
the Hollywood Hills.

The Secret of my Endurance

I still get letters in the mail, mostly from cracked-up
men in tiny rooms with factory jobs or no jobs who are
living with whores or no woman at all, no hope, just
booze and madness.
Most of their letters are on lined paper
written with an unsharpened pencil
or in ink
in tiny handwriting that slants to the
left
and the paper is often torn
usually halfway up the middle
and they say they like my stuff,
I’ve written from where it’s at, and
they recognize that. truly, I’ve given them a second
chance, some recognition of where they’re at.

it’s true, I was there, worse off than most
of them.
but I wonder if they realize where their letters
arrive?
well, they are dropped into a box
behind a six-foot hedge with a long driveway leading
to a two car garage, rose garden, fruit trees,
animals, a beautiful woman, mortgage about half
paid after a year, a new car,
fireplace and a green rug two-inches thick
with a young boy to write my stuff now,
I keep him in a ten-foot cage with a
typewriter, feed him whiskey and raw whores,
belt him pretty good three or four times
a week.
I’m 59 years old now and the critics say
my stuff is getting better than ever.

[Vishal · Rating 5 out of 5]

What else can I say about Bukowski's poetry, but that he inspires me to be one. To channel all the cumulative suffering into the creation of something equally tragic but not as meaningless.

[Kacey · Rating 4 out of 5]

"I have to tell you, faithfulness, that's something rare."

I feel like this started off a little slow, but the poems got progressively better as the collection went on. By the end, I was loving it. This collection reminded me of how much I like Bukowski's poems. They are all so raw and unfiltered and that's what makes them great for me.

[Dane Cobain · Rating 4 out of 5]

It’s always difficult to review a Charles Bukowski book, because they usually leave me feeling somewhat stunned. It’s like being assaulted by words and beat around the head until you get to the final page and realise it’s left you with a minor concussion. But that’s a good thing – Bukowski truly had a way with words, and in many ways he’s at his best here. Although equally, it’s hard to recommend any one of his poetry books above another.

That’s because each of Bukowski’s collections has a sort of soul of its own, and this one has an older soul to go with the age of the man who wrote it. That’s not to say that he avoids any of his traditional subjects, though – women, booze and horses are out in force here. But he does look at them with the advantage of age, and it’s interesting to see how that changes his opinion on things over time.

Overall though, this is just a rock solid poetry collection with some incredible chunks of wisdom on offer. You know what you’re getting with a Bukowski book – if you’ve read one before, that is – and this is a pretty typical example. Because of that, it’s not a bad collection to start with, especially because if anything, he’s a little tamer here. It reads like the collection of a man who’s finally coming to terms with his life, which in many ways, it is. That means it’s not always easy to read, but it is always sublime, and it’s entertaining along the way too. Give it a go!

[Paul · Rating 4 out of 5]

A very solid time frame for Bukowski. He was at the top of his writing powers, and letting his poems run free, without forcing them or thinking he had to be a Poet rather than a poet. His poems here have a great deal of pain, a rather greater amount of pride, and the brash simplicity of his thoughts echo that subset of my own thoughts that are probably best left unstated.

I often wonder how often Buk himself stated these thoughts out loud. It's very easy to confess your hatred and desires (and the combination of the two) to a beer can: did he do it in real life? I mean, I know he could be an asshole in real life...but could he do it and still be a poet?

Doesn't really matter. He did it here and I like it. And it soothes me to know that I'm not alone.

[Jake · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of my favorite late era Bukowski books. (Late era=after he gained fame and fortune in his 50s as a dirty old man who'd been writing for decades working shit jobs and living on skid row, writing all the while). What's nice about Bukowski is that, since he lived a rough life before anyone ever recognized his writing, he can admit that driving BMWs into valet parking and sunning himself under a mango tree while his former coworkers are still working at various post offices and factories or are dead in the gutter is pretty nice. He wrote this about a couple of his favorite writers, and it applies to him as well:

lines laid down
neatly
dried blood
crisp on the page

.

[Gretchen · Rating 2 out of 5]

Ehhhh... This isn't going to make sense but here goes: Some of these poems were good and some were not. But also, all of them seemed exactly the same. To me they were mostly indistinguishable from each other. I suppose I prefer Bukowski's novels to his poetry.

[Kayden Purvis · Rating 2 out of 5]

Mid Bukowski tbh

[Tom Quinn · Rating 2 out of 5]

I'm not a poetry fan, but I am a Bukowski fan. Some of these poems leap off the page and attack your brain with a ferocity unlike anything else. Others are little more than prose with funny line breaks. It's a mixed bag. Plus the content grows repetitive. Maybe it was a bad idea to read them all one after another.

But then again, it could be that I'm just a poetry-hating philistine.

2.5 stars out of 5.

[Jon Awerman · Rating 5 out of 5]

I enjoyed this immensely. It's fascinating to follow his progression as a poet and human throughout his life. There's a lot of shit in here, but it is outweighed by the beauty he more often than not stumbles upon.

[Datschneids · Rating 4 out of 5]

Probably my favorite of Bukowski. His ability to turn his extremely nihilistic viewpoints into meaningful (and often sad) prose is uncanny. Sometimes a glass-half empty approach helps one look at life a bit more objectively.

[Ron · Rating 5 out of 5]

The man's brilliant. You know it. I know it. What else can I say. This collection is from his later years. A bit tamer, with that old man scent, but still rock-n-roll.

[Mat · Rating 4 out of 5]

I hadn't read any Bukowski in a while so I thought I would try reading a collection I have never read before but one that most people have praised.

This was a pretty good book overall. Many of Buk's 'poems' are just short stories typed out to look like poems. But they are very enjoyable to read nonetheless.

As with any Bukowski collection, there are always a certain number of 'duds', of poems that fall flat. However, in this collection, there are fortunately relatively few of those.

The usual Bukowskian themes are here - women, drinking, playing the horses, classical music and the constant questioning of the so-called 'American dream'. Bukowski is raw, up-front (in your face), honest and often quite funny.

I read this over a weekend and it was time well spent and a volume that brought me much joy.

[Steven · Rating 2 out of 5]

One of the weaker collections of Bukowski poetry I've ever read. Most of the poems were extremely similar, most of them were also quite bad with a couple good ones. Interestingly, I have a used copy of this, and the previous owner has written little notes all over it.

All the notes are them talking shit about the especially bad poems.

[lalith · Rating 5 out of 5]

At night with a drink in hand, it made sense. A real sense.

[Brandon · Rating 3 out of 5]

Average collection of Bukowski poems, simple slices of life that are at times sort of boring. I hate it when Bukowski writes about his BMW, or when he complains about fans calling him on the phone. But all is not lost! There is a good cat poem in this collect ("Bad Fix") and a good poem about his father ("Slow Night"). Then there are two memorable and rather disturbing pedophilic poems: "A Gallon of Gas" and "True Confession." If I had a favorite poem in this collection it might have been "For the Little One" or maybe "Genius." Others I didn't hate: "Guest," Contemporary Literature, One," "The Woman From Germany," "Time Is Made To Be Wasted," "I Didn't Want To," "Platonic," and "It's Strange."

[Colter · Rating 2 out of 5]

this should have been one of his poems:

A guy once
said,
"I wanted to skip
your poems
but,
I pushed through like one of the
craps
you write about.
I wasn't happy I did."

[Brian Pappas · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sometimes you get a book of poetry that is so good you try and make it last as long as possible.

[Josh Sherman · Rating 4 out of 5]

Among his best—the Sherwood Anderson poem stands out.

[Curtis · Rating 5 out of 5]

After finding the last two Bukwoski poetry collections I read (Love Is A Dog..., Play The Piano...) to be a bit of a drop in form when compared to The Days Run Away..., Mockingbird... and Burning In Water..., I was really pleasantly surprised when this one showed a strong return a) to form, or b) to the kind of Bukowski poetry that I like best.

I read it alongside his novel Women, and would recommend anyone else to do the same as you'll notice that (as is the case with Love Is A Dog...) the women he describes in the novel are also present in many of these poems, which gives them a bit more familiarity. For some reason that gave me a bit of a kick.

While making a list of the best poems in this collection (which you can see below), I flicked through it to help me remember them. I seemed to find great poem after great poem, especially in the first two thirds of the book. As I mention below, Two Drunks was my favourite in the collection but I also particularly liked It's Strange.

Anyway, this is a great collection and a perfectly decent place to start with Bukowski's poetry if you're curious about it. It's my third favourite of his collections (after Mockingbird... and The Days Run Away...) and one that I plan on reading again in the not too distant future.

Blue Collar Solitude
Independence Day
One For Sherwood Anderson
I Didn't Want To
Love And Courage
Two Drunks <<< My favourite in the collection
Ladies Man
Yrs., Anica
Out Of The Mainstream
We've Got To Communicate
The Descent Of The Species
Black And White Roach
It's Strange
Just Another Bad Affair
Message
We Evolve

[Brad · Rating 4 out of 5]

A huge collection of some of Bukowski's inner ramblings. Many were great, some were merely good, almost all were entertaining. He focused on what he did best -- drinking, gambling, sex. Two good quotes:

"There is much good in being alone
but there is a strange warmth in not being alone." (yes)

"I lost my enthusiasm for the masses at age 4." (the embracers)

And one poem that I'm going to keep coming back to:

we evolve
at first it seems like fucking is the big thing,

then after that ? social consciousness,

then intellectual accomplishment,

and after that

some fall into religion

others into the arts.

after that begins the gathering of money

the stage we pretend that

money doesn?t matter.

then it?s health and hobbies,

travel, and finally just sitting around

thinking vaguely of vague things,

rooting in gardens

hating flies, noise, bad weather, snails,

old friends, drunks, smoking, fucking,

singing, dancing, upstarts,

the postman and the weeds.

it gives one the fidgets: waiting on

death.

[Will (Wildes) Lawler · Rating 2 out of 5]

I’m a big Bukowski fan but this collection was incredibly disappointing. The enjambment and lineation is repetitive and lazy and is significantly more prose than poetry. I could not read the last 100 pages because I started to get so angry about everything. The degree of misogyny and sexism was ridiculous and has made me rethink my perception of Bukowski. I loved ‘The Days Run Away Like Horses Over The Hills’ because poems that were sexist to a degree and the abuse of alcohol were consistent with the collections voice being reckless, self-destructive and in a toxic state of grieving from his late wife. For ‘Dangling Over The Tournefortia’, it reads as overly abusive, sexist and offensive and connected with his personality rather than a period of his life. I’m not saying that behaviour like this and his clear disrespect for women is justifiable in any way whatsoever, and grieving isn’t an excuse, but there is no narrative of any sort in this collection. The lack of technique, depth, the narrow subject matter and obscenity was infuriating to read.

[Sarah Kane · Rating 5 out of 5]

one of his best. a true reminder of why Bukowski is worthy of admiration and why so many try to imitate him. his observations offer a unique perspective of someone who has had both nothing and everything, and in fact it’s part of his swagger. his unrelenting honestly also cannot be denied - one could argue in regards to the misogynist or creepy elements of his work that he knows exactly what he’s doing and is in fact facing his shadow and owning his darkness in a way that is *almost* respectable; there is a sadness and a pointed self awareness in his tone that suggests a desire to be better. unfortunately, he doesn’t NEED to be better; he can be bad as he wants. this is where Bukowski falls short - never offering a will to change or initiating any progress as an individual. the poems get better regardless of the drinking, the women stay despite his neglect, and he is okay being the self effacing loser of literature as long as he’s winning at the race track.

[E · Rating 3 out of 5]

somehow, i can still find comfort between bukowski's lines. it wasn't his greatest poetry but some of it hit just right.

i think the comfort lays in reading about adverse conditions, foreign underground life, disinterest in life. it is highly unlikely that i'll ever drink six-packs until the morning and get up for a horse race at 11am. but i can almost understand the escape. when the interviewers and young writers come to him, i can almost understand why he can't give them what they want.

bukowski's poems are just stories of loneliness and isolation. they can be problematic and it's not the hardest to dislike him. at the same time, when he drives around and contemplates on people and death, i can understand the desire for chaos. bukowski deserved to see tournefortia bloom but in his heart i think it was burning.

[Dwhale · Rating 4 out of 5]

sayfa 271

evriliriz

önceleri düzüşmektir en büyük şey,
ondan sonra - toplum bilinci,
sonra entelektüel başarılar,
ve ondan sonra
kimi kendini dine verir
kimi sanata.
sonra para edinme safhası başlar
ve para edinildikten sonra
paranın önemi yokmuş gibi yaptığımız
aşama gelir.
sonra sağlık ve hobiler
seyahat ve sonunda öylece
oturup müphem şeylere dair
müphem düşüncelere kapılırsın,
bahçede köklenme,
sineklerden, gürültüden, kötü havadan,
salyangozlardan, kalabalıktan, beklenmeyenden,
yeni komşulardan, eski arkadaşlardan, ayyaşlardan,
sigara içmekten, düzüşmekten, dans etmekten, yeni zenginlerden,
postacıdan ve ayrık otlarından
nefret edersin.
insanı huzursuz eder: ölümü
beklemek

[Martín · Rating 5 out of 5]

we evolve

at first it seems like fucking is the big thing,
then after that—social consciousness,
then intellectual accomplishment,
and then after that
some fall into religion
others into the arts.
after that begins the gathering of money
and after the gathering of money
the stage where we pretend that
money doesn’t matter.
then it’s health and hobbies,
travel, and finally just sitting around
thinking vaguely of vague things,
rotting in gardens
hating flies, noise, bad weather, snails,
rudeness, the unexpected, new neighbors,
old friends, drunks, smoking, fucking,
singing, dancing, upstarts,
the postman and weeds.
it gives one the fidgets: waiting on
death.

[IGNACIO ROMERO · Rating 5 out of 5]

Uno más, el último del año.
Bukowski escribió el cartero, su primer libro, en 1971, cuando tenía 51 años.
Eso me da esperanzas.
Este lo publicó diez años después, cuando ya era un escritor conocido, cuando manejaba un BMW y había dejado de trabajar en las fábricas y de dormir en pensiones inmundas.
Y lo mejor de este libro, es que se ríe de eso también.
Bukowski atravesó el fuego, y cuando llegó al cielo, se rió de eso también. Y vivió su vida, sin intentarlo.
Eso es lo que lo hizo ser, el más grande de todos los tiempos.

[Jo · Rating 5 out of 5]

Bukowski records his daily bouts of drinking, the racetrack, women, and east Hollywood in non-literary poetry. His greatest talent is saying it how it is, which some may interpret as cynical. He is anti-establishment and gives zero fucks about literature, which is most evident in his poems on giving readings and being interviewed. In this collection, Bukowski comes across as funny, self-deprecating, and even sentimental, in that he notices what is overlooked and ordinary, which is a kind of appreciation for life.

[Dana · Rating 3 out of 5]

platonic
"she wanted a platonic afternoon and I said, all right
but what can we do?

and she said, I like to talk.

so I took her to the racetrack and we
talked.

...
after she got in the car
and started the engine
she leaned out the window
kissed me on the cheek.
and drove off.

well, like they said:
sex wasn't everything.
there was the soul too.
I walked back into my place
and started looking for
mine."