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Read Burning In Water, Drowning In Flame (2002)

Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame (2002)

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4.23 of 5 Votes: 3
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ISBN
087685191X (ISBN13: 9780876851913)
Language
English
Publisher
ecco

Burning In Water, Drowning In Flame (2002) - Plot & Excerpts

I love poetry, but hardly own any of it...what's up with that? I aimed to change that this summer when I picked up this collection of poems from Charles Bukowski. Bukowski is a frequently cited inspiration for lots of modern poets, as well as the punk rock and heavy metal musicians that I adore oh so much, so I figured I owe it to trace some roots back a bit and discover who he was.tThe forward of this book says it collects his first 4 works of poetry, but the Wikipedia says otherwise in their bibliography on his page. Nonetheless it is some of his earlier works and a great place to start.tI tore my copy of this book up over the summer with a pen and highlighter because there was a lot I ended up liking and wanting to flag for future reference/inspiration. Above all else I think I enjoyed what I could tell was Bukowski messing with the norms of poetic form. His weird typewriter indentations, and stair-like paragraphs were a unique take on actually reading poetry versus hearing it. In a world of Deaf-Poetry and Slam-Poems where the poem seems to appear more dynamic if spoken, Bukowski's poems appear quite the opposite. The effects of his indentations and spacing would be lost on someone who was hearing the poem, but not actually reading it. Most of his poems are very rooted in extreme realism, but the few times in this that he occasionally veers off into more surreal prose and imagery provided some of the more memorable moments and lines in this for me. tLike most poem collections there are bound to be some misses in it. This is no exception. Some of Bukowski's early poems on drunk ramblingness just feel like actual drunken rambles. Some of his more “I'm just observing crap around me” poems are also equally as stilted and easily forgotten. Also lots of unrequited love poems. Definitely the writings of a single lonely guys in his 20's, which is further proof to me that certain things are timeless in this world. Bukowski might have been the first emo kid on the planet actually...tOverall I really enjoyed this, but I'm not exactly a top notch critic on poetry. It's a great resource for a writer like me though, and will be staying on my shelf for at least a few years to come.tBest poem title: “To the Whore Who Stole My Poems”tBest line: “hooray, Hooray / hooray say the roses / we wave empires on our stems / the sun moves the mouth: / hooray hooray hooray / and that is why you like us.”tBest poem: 2 p.m. Beer.

Burning in Water is another example of why I am so happy to be pushing through this reading list. Misogynistic, alcoholic poetry is not really my go-to genre, but I loved Bukowski and his humor, cadence and wit.I had many favorites, but if forced to choose, I would go with "the body".I have beenhanging hereheadlessfor so longthat the body has forgottenwhyor where or when ithappenedand the toeswalk along in shoesthat do notcareand althoughthe fingersslice things andhold things andmove things andtouchthingssuch asorangesapplesonionsbooksbodiesI am no longerreasonably surewhat these thingsarethey are mostlylikelamplight andfogthen often the hands willgo to thelost headand hold the headlike the hands of achildaround a balla blockair and wood -no teethno thinking partand when a windowblows opento achurchhillwomandogor something singingthe fingers of the handare senseless to vibrationbecause they have noearssenseless to color becausethey have noeyessenseless to smellwithout a nosethey country goes by asnonsensethe continentsthe daylights and eveningsshineon my dirtyfingernailsand in some mirrormy facea block to vanishscuffed part of a child'sballwhile everywheremovesworms and aircraftfires on the landtall violets in sanctitymy hands let go let golet go

What do You think about Burning In Water, Drowning In Flame (2002)?

I thought about just writing a single-word review for this book: Insipid! [I worried that the exclaimation point sounded too "Broadway," but I left it because nobody but nobody would ever put Bukowski on Broadway, (although I can easily see him in an Off-Off Broadway production and wouldn't be surprised if one already existed.)] But that single word, though accurate, doesn't quite encompass all of my ill feelings for this book, this man and his work, and for the veneration they both receive. I'm still searching for those words. I've been searching for years. Maybe I should just forget it, be like Bukowski and write the first thing that comes to mind. Other than the occaisional above-average metaphor and the rare good line there's nothing to this book. It's as empty and unappetizing as the taste it's left in my mouth.
—Brent Legault

This one sat I my shelf for a mere 24 years, yet I continue to be intrigued by this ravaged man and his ruminations. Poetry isn't the first thing I reach for, but Buk's brutal honesty and cantankerous narration is always fresh, as is his clever use of metaphor. These are early poems from the 50's, 60's, then early 70's and the depictions of LA in those times is authentic, like original photography but with historical insight from the drunken everyman. His anger seethes, at god at man and at the whole modern American construct of work and family. Nearly gave this 3 stars, as it is terrain I am familiar with, but he hooked me in the last series with the realism of the street and the beauty he extracts from the mundane, albeit begrudgingly. These are from books long out of print, so a treat from the early days of a writer I've read mid, late and early career. Those piquant moments of reflection in the middle of the night, amidst the boredom and hopelessness in this surely depressed narrator's point of view, are rendered in measured meter and across the physical page. He feels the unfairness viscerally, as recounting a homeless man who had maimed himself in private parts (this stuff just wasn't much written about in the 60s): p 113: "I think sometimes of all the good ass turned over to the monsters of the world, maybe it was his protest against this or his protest against everything.... God, or somebody...bless....him".Or (p 128-129), as the roaming Buk looks across an impoverished landscape for a kindred spirit, finding none, expecting none, but seeking "a living man, truly alive, say when he brings his hands down from lighting a cigarette you see his eyes like the eyes of a tiger staring past into the wind. .. but when the hands come down, it is always the other eyes, that are there always always." The loneliness is palpable. He looks in mirrors a lot, but as the antithesis of Narcissus, as on p. 149 "now I look up and see my face in the mirror: if I could only kill the man who killed the man". That one line keeps me coming back and I will have to read the full lexicon of this distraught and artistic working man of the arts.
—Ned Mozier

The earlier poems in this collection are the best in the lot. Something about the outright simplicity of them, and maybe a different way (than I'm used seeing) of Bukowski writing, a tad more optimism, less world weariness. I'm a fan in general of Bukowski's writing, his novels and his short stories, this my first time reading his poetry and I get the feeling that his true strength, the true heavy walloping of his work lies in the poetry. There is something unique going on here. I've got to keep reading his poetry. Have exhausted all the short stories and novels, I'm glad I saved the poetry for last.
—Bud Smith

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