GRAN POEMA DE BUKOWSKI

 

 

De entre todas las animaladas de Bukowski (gran fan del alcohol y de las carreras de caballos) rescaté este poema, sumamente diferente al resto. Viene en un libro - quizá el más recomendable de poesía de Bukowski – “Dangling in the Tournefortia”.

 

Interesante cuando Bukowski se pone sentimental.

 

 

 “Yes”

 

No matter who I’m with

People always say,

Are you still with her?

 

My average relationship lasts

Two and a half years

With wars

Inflation

Unemployment

Alcoholism

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 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:

4^th of July, Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving,

Christmas, New Year’s.

They know how to ride this 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 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.