words are all we have.
'I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted"#poetry#poem#words#writersnetwork#jackkerouac
Skid Row Wine
I coulda done a lot worse than sitin Skid Row drinkin wineTo know that nothing matters after allTo know there's no real differencebetween the rich and the poorTo know that eternity is neither drunknor sober, to know it youngand be a poetCoulda gone into business and rantedAnd believed that God was concernedInstead I squatted in lonesome alleysAnd no one saw me, just my bottleand what they saw of it was empty And I did it in the cornfields & graveyardsTo know that the dead don't make noiseTo know that the cornstalks talk (amongone another with raspy old arms)Sittin in alleys diggin the neonsAnd watching cathedral custodiansWring out their rags neath the church steps Sittin and drinkin wineAnd in railyards being devineTo be a millionaire & yet to preferCurling up with a poor boy of tokayIn a warehouse door, facing long sunsetsOn railroad fields of grassTo know that the sleepers in the riverare dreaming vain dreams, to squatin the night and know it wellTo be dark solitary eye-nerve watcherof the world's whirling diamond -Jack Kerouac
Yesterday was the very birthday of the great Sylvia Plath. Are you also enamoured with her?"I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo"#word#miraquill#words#poetry#sylviaplath#writersnetwork
I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands and turned up and be utterly empty.How free it is, you have no idea how free. -Sylvia Plath
Bukowski: "Writing. often it is the onlythingbetween you andimpossibility.no drink,no woman's love,no wealthcanmatch it."#poem#poetry#simile#charlesbukowski#words#writing#writersnetwork
so you want to be a writer?
If it doesn't come bursting out of youin spite of everything,don't do it.unless it comes unasked out of yourheart and your mind and your mouthand your gut,don't do it.if you have to sit for hoursstaring at your computer screenor hunched over yourtypewritersearching for words,don't do it.if you're doing it for money orfame,don't do it.if you're doing it because you wantwomen in your bed,don't do it.if you have to sit there andrewrite it again and again,don't do it.if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,don't do it.if you're trying to write like somebodyelse,forget about it.if you have to wait for it to roar out ofyou,then wait patiently.if it never does roar out of you,do something else.if you first have to read it to your wifeor your girlfriend or your boyfriendor your parents or to anybody at all,you're not ready.don't be like so many writers,don't be like so many thousands ofpeople who call themselves writers,don't be dull and boring andpretentious, don't be consumed with self-love.the libraries of the world haveyawned themselves tosleepover your kind.don't add to that.don't do it.unless it comes out ofyour soul like a rocket,unless being still woulddrive you to madness orsuicide or murder,don't do it.unless the sun inside you isburning your gut,don't do it.when it is truly time,and if you have been chosen,it will do it byitself and it will keep on doing ituntil you die or it dies in you.there is no other way.and there never was. - Charles Bukowski
"I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed but all I could do was to get drunk again."#poetry#poem#charlesbukowski#writersnetwork
it wasn't my day.my week.my month.my year.my life.God damn it! - Charles Bukowski
"my father always said, “early to bed andearly to rise makes a man healthy, wealthyand wise.”it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our houseand we were up at dawn to the smell ofcoffee, frying bacon and scrambledeggs.my father followed this general routinefor a lifetime and died young, broke,and, I think, not toowise.taking note, I rejected his advice and itbecame, for me, late to bed and lateto rise.now, I’m not saying that I’ve conqueredthe world but I’ve avoidednumberless early traffic jams, bypassed somecommon pitfallsand have met some strange, wonderfulpeople"one of whomwasmyself—someone my fatherneverknew."#charlesbukowski#simile#poetry#poem
a smile to remember
we had goldfish and they circled around andaround in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapescovering the picture window and my mother, always smiling , wanting us all to be happy, told me , ‘be happy Henry!’and she was right: it was better to be happy if you canbut my father continued to beat her and meseveral times a week while raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn’t understand what was attacking him from within .my mother poor fish wanting to be happy,beaten two or three times aweek,telling me to be happy:’Henry , smile!why don’t you ever smile?!and then she would smile, to show me how,and it was the saddest smile I ever sawone day the goldfish died , all five of them,they floated on the water, on their sides, theireyes still open,and when my father got home he threw them to the catthere on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother smiled.- Charles Bukowski