Read Love Is a Dog from Hell by Charles Bukowski Online

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Poems rising from and returning to Bukowski's personal experiences reflect people, objects, places, and events of the external world, and reflects on them, on their way out and back....

Title : Love Is a Dog from Hell
Author :
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ISBN : 9780876853627
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 312 Pages
Status : Available For Download
Last checked : 21 Minutes ago!

Love Is a Dog from Hell Reviews

  • s.p
    2018-11-19 04:01

    people are not good to each other.perhaps if they wereour deaths would not be so sad.Love him or hate him, Charles Bukowski was a bitter, drunken asshole with a gift for putting onto paper all the ugliness and baseness hiding in the human heart. Before jumping into the discovery and thoughts that are the inspiration for this ramble about the dirty old writer, a few moments should be spent on the actual poetry found in this volume. I’ve always enjoyed the earlier Bukowski, before he became too jaded and bitter and let a few really tender moments flower within all the crassness. Love, and more specifically the failures and loss of it, are the heart of this collection. All through the poems here are allusions to the ‘red haired woman’, whom Bukowski shows a deep regret in loosing. Much of the crassness feels reactionary to this loss of love as Bukowski documents a spiral into dirty, drunken debauchery and madness as a method of hardening the heart against such pains. Love is replaced with lust to erase loneliness, yet, ironically, it only instills further self-hatred and builds towards a crippling loneliness.there is always one womanto save you from anotherand as that woman saves youshe makes ready todestroy.Bukowski is that drunk asshole always diving to the bottom of a glass, keeping shallow relationships and never trusting women. He is, at best, a rude misogynist, but under the layers of dysphemism, we see a heart drowning in sorrow (and booze). There is still some charm though, he is often humorous in his crassness, and there are moments where he truly shows remorse for the terrible manner in which human beings treat one another. Hedid not really like people, probably a lot of that having to do with his fear of being hurt by others. His poetry is rather simple, nothing complex to pick apart, and very rarely uses many poetic devices, but that is what makes it so powerful. It cuts right to the heart. He often describes the writing process as pounding the keys like a prizefighter, and often refers to his typewriter as his 'piano' (Bukowski was a huge fan of classical music, especially Brahms, and compares music and writing often).This collection contains a poem that not only introduced me to Knut Hamsun (who is now one of my favorite authors), but I’ve always kept in mind as a darkly comical motivation for being a writer:How to be a Good Writeryou've got to fuck a great many womenbeautiful womenand write a few decent love poems. and don't worry about ageand/or freshly-arrived talents. just drink more beermore and more beer and attend the racetrack at least once a week and winif possible learning to win is hard -any slob can be a good loser. and don't forget your Brahmsand your Bach and yourbeer. don't overexercise. sleep until moon. avoid paying credit cardsor paying for anything ontime. remember that there isn't a piece of assin this world over $50(in 1977). and if you have the ability to lovelove yourself firstbut always be aware of the possibility oftotal defeatwhether the reason for that defeatseems right or wrong - an early taste of death is not necessarilya bad thing. stay out of churches and bars and museums, and like the spider bepatient -time is everybody's cross, plusexiledefeat treachery all that dross. stay with the beer. beer is continuous blood. a continuous lover. get a large typewriterand as the footsteps go up and downoutside your window hit that thinghit it hard make it a heavyweight fight make it the bull when he first charges in and remember the old dogswho fought so well: Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun. If you think they didn't go crazyin tiny roomsjust like you're doing now without womenwithout foodwithout hope then you're not ready. drink more beer. there's time. and if there's notthat's all righttoo. While looking to find more references to Hamsun in this collection, I noticed that within the margins, my own handwriting was mixed with that of another’s. It turns out that one of my closest friends, a friend I have not seen in years and have been separated from by the circumstances of life that separate even the closest of people, had gone through this book and left me all sorts of comments for me to think about, as well as comment upon my own reaction. It was like having a conversation across 3 years time with an old friend, the type of friend that is more like a brother. The power of language and writing seemed more important than ever suddenly, as it is a tool tying people together across space and time. This particular collection couldn’t be more fitting to find these notes written years earlier (I have a few other books where we both wrote notes to each other, such as Thus Spoke Zarathustra which we were both reading at the same time while he was our ‘guy on couch’ at an old apartment), both with Bukowski’s discussions of loneliness, but as it was indicative of my current state at that time. A few years ago was a bit of a darker period where the group of us had close ties and stayed rather under the radar of society. I would go to class, return to our apartment and we would spend all our time playing music, drinking and discussing film and books. This was a bitter period, as I had been in that post-heartbreak stage where the world seems ugly and, like Bukowski, just wanted to revel in my bitterness for awhile. Finding these notes brings back only the happy memories of those times and makes you realize that the loss of someone you loved as a brother is far more important to you than the loss of any former lover, and these are the people you miss most down the line in the birth pangs of some lonely, introspective morning. This all reminds me very much of the Savage Detectives and that sadness of people spreading out across the map as friendships rust and wash away in the changing tides. What struck me most was his notes about the sadness that permeates this collection. In one margin is written: ‘Bukowski seems genuinely troubled/depressed by the imagery of failed relationships and their aftermath – the failings of love and the intended + unintended ways we hurt one another’. That more or less sums this book up. I also enjoyed moments where he circled lines such as ‘oh brothers, we are the sickest and lowest of the breed’, which summed up that summer we all spent together in our tiny, dirty Ypsilanti apartment. He was also kind enough to highlight every mention of the ‘redhead’ and string together the story that is told through fragments.Enough of that emotional reflection though, nobody likes that sort of stuff. Which leads me to a quote from Neil Young (my favorite, and it pains me to be referencing such an obvious song instead of some lesser-known greater one) that ‘every junky is like a setting sun’. They are on their way out, difficult, if not painful, to look right at, yet beautiful. Bukowski fits this bill, as his life and works are painful to watch, but there is some beauty in there. Also like a setting sun, people like this aren’t something you can hang around long or you will get hurt (or loose your vision if you stare at the sun too long!). This is a messy metaphor, but I swear it’s going somewhere. Poems like those of Bukowski, or people who fit this bill such as drinking buddies, are good for certain times and places, however, you can’t linger there. When you are feeling dirty and ugly and crass, Bukowski is wonderful fun. Works like his are empowering at those times because you can relate and laugh along with, and, primarily, because it is reassuring to see that others with this same ugliness are able to create something beautiful. Once you’ve had your fill though, the time comes to move forward, as this sort of ugliness can only lead to more ugliness and eventually it will fill you and drag you down with it. These types of works are very reactionary, only as a venomous bite toward what hurts you and not a truly constructive method of moving on. The mid to late 2000s was full of this sort of behavior, look at the emo culture, where people wanted to express their disdain for the world around them (the emo culture did it with more self loathing and tears, whereas something like Bukowski is more about pushing someone away through acting depraved and hard when you actually truly want them to get close to you). However, we can’t always be angry and we have to move on, get over our problems, or they win. They become us. We can’t be simply made up of only our failures and sadness, we must learn to deal with them, get past them, and win by being stronger than our problems. I tend to rag on Chuck Palahniuk a lot, but he really fits this idea for me, and if I can quickly explain it, perhaps I won’t have to keep using him as an example anymore. His works were very popular in the era mentioned above (okay, I know Bukowski wasn’t writing then, but this has transcended Bukowski’s works into a discussion about getting over problems), because they were a gripe against social forces. Chuck P. took hold of many adolescents through writing stories with adults who are characterized like angsty teenagers. They view the world and societal constructs as threatening, as something holding them down, and turn to nihilism to deal with that. However, nihilism will only negate things, it won’t transcend them. I lost interest in Palahniuk once I realized that he would never offer a true solution to the problems he imposes on his characters (as well as simply recycling characters and techniques, but that is a different discussion). I couldn’t wallow in his cynicism and darkness any longer, and turned to bigger, better and brighter authors. I have never looked back. Yet, I can’t condemn him entirely, because he fit my 17 year old needs for awhile. I enjoyed Fight Club at the time, Choke made me laugh, and sometimes it is good to wallow in the ugliness. But stay to long and the pity-party, because that is all it really is, becomes sad and pathetic.All in all, I’m glad I’ve read Bukowski, but I feel like my life has taken me places where his opinions no longer really reach me. I can’t wallow in that sadness, and I find his lusts rather creepy and his woman-bashing rather offensive. However, that is exactly what he was striving for. Still, those moments of beauty are worth coming back for, and I can’t express enough how cool it was to find the notes from my friend. Mostly, being able to reminisce about those days of stupid, wild youth is what really holds my heart.3.5/5Okay, and this poem, Dinosauria, We is great (although not from this collection)

  • Huda Yahya
    2018-11-11 04:09

    الألم زهرة الألم زهور. تتفتّح كل الوقت....ويبدو أن الألم كان محرك بوكوفسكي الأولوإن كان اختار التعبير عنه بطريقة ساخرة .. مجنونةمثله تماما----------------------------الثورات الحقيقية تنبع من القرف الحقيقي حين تسوء الأمور كفاية تقتل الهررة الأسد.::::::::::::::::المنطقة التي تفصل الدماغ عن الروحتتأثّر بالتجربة بشتّى الطرقبعضهم يفقد عقله ويصبح روحًا:المجنون.بعضهم يفقد روحه ويصبح عقلًا:المثقّف.بعضهم يفقد الاثنين:المقبول اجتماعيًّا::::::::::::::::أن يموت المرء على أرضية المطبخ عند السابعة صباحابينما الآخرون يقلون البيضليس بالأمر شديد القسوةإلا إذا حدث لك.::::::::::::::::المثقفةتكتب باستمراركخرطوم طويليدهن الهواء،وتجادل باستمرار؛لا شيء مما يمكن أن أقولهإلا ويعني شيئاً آخر،لذا، أتوقف عن القول؛وأخيراًتتجادل ونفسهاخارج البابقائلة شيئاً من نوعلست أحاولترك انطباع حسنلديك عني.::::::::::::::::مأساة العشبأفقتُ على الجفاف وكانت السراخس ميتة،النباتات التي في القدور الفخارية صفراء كالذرة؛امرأتي رحلتوالزجاجات الفارغة تحاصرني، كجثث مدمّاة،بلاجدواها؛كانت الشمس لا تزال تسطع مع ذلكوملحوظة صاحبة البيت تكسّرت في اصفرار مناسبغير متطلّب؛ أكثر ما كنت بحاجة اليه وقتذاككوميدي جيد، من الأسلوب القديم، مهرّجيحمل نكاتاً على ألم مجرّد؛ الألم مجرّدلأنه موجود، لا أكثر؛حلقتُ، بشفرة قديمة، وبحذرذقن الرجل الذي كان يافعا ذات مرة وقيلإنه عبقري؛لكنها مأساة العشب،السراخس الميتة، النباتات الميتة؛وعبرتُ الردهة المعتمةحيث تقف صاحبة البيتلاعنةً ومرسلة إياي، أخيراً،إلى الجحيم،ملوّحة بذراعيها السمينتين المعرّقتينوصارخةصارخة تطالب بالإيجارلأن العالم خذلنانحن الإثنين.

  • John
    2018-11-28 21:11

    Bukowski. Here's a poem.I don’t know how many bottles of beer I have consumed while waiting for things to get better I don’t know how much wine and whisky and beer mostly beer I have consumed after splits with women— waiting for the phone to ring waiting for the sound of footsteps, and the phone to ring waiting for the sounds of footsteps, and the phone never rings until much later and the footsteps never arrive until much later when my stomach is coming up out of my mouth they arrive as fresh as spring flowers: “what the hell have you done to yourself? it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!” the female is durable she lives seven and one half years longer than the male, and she drinks very little beer because she knows it’s bad for the figure. while we are going mad they are out dancing and laughing with horny cowboys. well, there’s beer sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles and when you pick one up the bottle fall through the wet bottom of the paper sack rolling clanking spilling gray wet ash and stale beer, or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m. in the morning making the only sound in your life. beer rivers and seas of beer the radio singing love songs as the phone remains silent and the walls stand straight up and down and beer is all there is.

  • ميقات الراجحي
    2018-11-23 23:11

    قراءة خاصة بالنسخة المترجمةكنت قد قرأت النصوص المترجمة هنا (مختارات) من عدة مجموعات شعرية وكنت قدر صرّحت من قبل من عدم ميلي القرائي للمختارات فليس ثمة توافق بيني وبينها على صعيد النتاج الشرقي. ذلك أنني أطرب لقراءة الديوان الصادر وفق المرحلة الزمنية مثلما فعلت مع نتاج دنقل وقباني والثبيتي وبوكوفسكي – رغم عدم وصولي لها كلها لكني حرصت على قراءة الإصدارات المتتالية وفق سلمها الزمني – وكذلك مع آرثر رامبو، وبوشكين ، وطاغور – ما ترجم من شعره عربيًا – بينما هنا مختارات قام المترجم بإنتقاء (5) مجموعات من أشهر ما كتب بوكوفسي وعلى إمتداد مرحلة تجاوزت الـ(44) عام من الكتابة الشعرية. "بيت ترجمتي (زياد عبد الله :المتوسط)، و(سامر أبو هواش : الجمل) لقصائد مشابهة. من الترجمة الحديثة في الألفية الحالية ترجمة سامر أبو هواش خصوصًا لبعض مجموعة ديوان :Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame وقصائد من ديوان :It Catches My Heart in Its Handsكنت قد قرأت قصائد تشابه إختيارها بين ترجمتي زياد وأبوهواش، ورغم جمال ترجمة هواش عندما قرأت بعض النصوص المترجمة بلغتها الأم أقول أنه حافظ على الجوهر أي معنى النص وليس مجرد ترجمة حرفية فتلك عقبة سيحاسب عليها فهذا شعر. لكنه أقول تجاوزها بإحترافية جميلة وخانه كثيرًا أن يهبنا (روح) النص حيث لم يوفّق أحيان كثيرة في (قفلة) القصيدة رغم أنها أمام عينيه في النص الأصل فلماذا تمكّن من ذلك (زياد عبد الله) مع تقديري لهما معًا؟. ربما هو المخزون اللغوي وقوة الإطلاع على "ثقافة اللغة" للغة المترجمة لها – العربية – دون المطالبة بإمتلاك المترجم لموهبة الشعر ليصبح لديه ذلك الحس مثلما فعل مترجمو رباعيات الخيام الذي كان (90%) منهم شعراء عظام وموهبون بالفطرة.يكفي عندما تشاهد عنوان مجموعة في ترجمات زياد هكذا (محترقًا في الماء.. غارقًا في اللهب) بينما عند أو هواش (الاحتراق في المياه، الغرق في النار) أن تعي مدى الجملة الموسيقية في ترجمة زياد ولك أن تخمّن كيف ستكون بقية الترجمة علي مستوي بقية المختارات، ولا نغفل أن ثمة قصائد في كلا الترجمتين مثل ( إلى مارلين / العاهرة التي سرقت قصائدي / حال العالم / أبي / الحب والشهرة والموت / جانب من الشمس....) وغيرها الكثير من القصائد التي يمكنك من خلالها مشاهدت الفرق بين الترجمات رغم جمالهما معًا إلا شعرية ترجمة زياد أعظم وتستحق القراءة وتكرار الترجمة لنصوص جديدة.وفق اللغة الإنجليزية الإحتراق في النار والغرق في اللهب هو فعل مستمر لم ينتهي ولهذا ترجمة “زياد” ((محترقًا في الماء.. غارقًا في اللهب)) هي الأنسب بينما عنوان "هواش" ((الاحتراق في المياه، الغرق في النار)) هي ترجمة حرفية لا معنى لها. خالية من الروحة الشعرية.كانت فكرة كل قصيدة قائمة، وتكاد تشعر بها في كل نص ولربما يظن المترجم والقارئ هنا أن يشعرني أني بوكوفسي حيًا ويكتب لنا نصًا بغتنا العربية.. لا. ليس كذلك ولكن كنت أتمنى ترجمات تشعرني بروح الشعر في ترجمة (أبو هواش) فليس ككاتب ولا كقارئ مطلوب مني إمتداح كل ما أجده في الكتاب ولست كذلك ممن يطالبون بالكامل فذلك وهم.” *هنا أنا لست ممن يُبْخَسُ المترجم حقه بل ترجمته جميلة وأظن الترجمات الشعرية القادمة ستكون أكثر جمالًآ من هذه التجربة إن شاء اللهـــــــــ،* هذا الجزء من المراجعة وضعته كذلك في مراجعتي لكتاب (محترقًا في الماء.. غارقًا في اللهب) لزياد عبد الله لتشابه فكرتي فيما أود طرحه حول الكتابين.

  • June
    2018-11-15 21:14

    Don't tell me I don't get it. I know I probably don't. But Jesus Christ, if I have to read one more poem about the women he's screwed and the women who've screwed him, I'm going to start writing my own collection of poetry about the cereal I eat in the morning and try to publish that.Granted, I am not a great lover of poetry. And I have very low tolerance for people who want to eloquently bemoan about their shitty lives without seemingly caring to get their shit together. Honestly, I'm not really sure why I picked this book up - somewhere hidden away in the back of my mind was the voice telling me I wouldn't like it. But every once in a while I get a hankering for poetry, for the streamlined and condensed collection of ideas, words or imagery they provide. And I read a Bukowski poem I liked once. Something about a car going down the street or something, I don't know. So I thought I'd give it a chance.So yeah, I just don't get Bukowski, I guess. And honestly, I sometimes think I'm predisposed to not like him because of a certain type of Bukowski-lovers I encountered during college - people who were cooler than me and knew it, who silently smoked clove cigarettes, and refused to be aware of anything pop culture related past the 1960's. I pick up Bukowski now and I'm instantaneously reminded of this exclusive group of individuals who were gifted in amplifying my own insecurities. It's like this embarrassing Pavlovian reaction, inciting a domino of emotions - first my self esteem dips, then I get depressed, then I get irritated for getting depressed, and then I just get shifty-eyed and distrusting of my own feelings and wonder if I need a therapist. Kidding. Kind of. Just don't make me read him anymore, okay?

  • Ahmed Oraby
    2018-11-29 02:28

    حين تكف النساء عن حمل المراياإلى كل مكان يذهبن إليهفعندئذ ربمايمكنهن أن يحدثنني عن التحرر

  • Amira Mahmoud
    2018-11-28 22:13

    تشارلز بوكوفسكيهذا أحد المجانين الذين ابدأ في القراءة لهيبدو أن الشعراء والفلاسفة، إما مجانين وغريبي الأطواروإما ناثري الألم والكآبة على كل ما يكتبونوهذا البوكوفسكي جمع بين الإثنين معًابين الجنون والألمبعض الناس لا يُصبون قطّ بلوثة الجنونأيّ حياة رهيبةتلك التي يعيشونها.الألم زهرةالألم زهورتتفتح طوال الوقتكنت قد قرأت لسامر أبو هواش من قبلهالنّي ما قرأت من كآبة وغرابة الأطوارلذا حين رأيت اسمه بجوار كلمة ترجمةقررت أن استعين به لاقتحام عالم بوكوفسكيخاصة وأن قراءة شعر مترجم ليست بالأمر السهلأنا قلما اقرأ شعر بلغتي الأم ويعجبني، فماذا عن المترجم؟فمثلما قال الربوهو يضع ساقًا على ساق:أرى أنني صنعت الكثير من الشعراءلكن ليس الكثيرمن الشعر.ورغم أنني أثناء قرائتي، فهمت القليلوأعجبني أقللكن أستطيع أن أقول أنني استمتعوربما إذا استطاع المرء بما فيه الكفاية الابتعاد عن الواضح فلن يعود واضحًا هو نفسهتمّت

  • vie
    2018-11-19 20:09

    An Almost Made Up PoemI see you drinking at a fountain with tinyblue hands, no, your hands are not tinythey are small, and the fountain is in Francewhere you wrote me that last letter andI answered and never heard from you again.you used to write insane poems aboutANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and youknew famous artists and most of themwere your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealousbecause we’ never met. we got close once inNew Orleans, one half block, but never met, nevertouched. so you went with the famous and wroteabout the famous, and, of course, what you found outis that the famous are worried abouttheir fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bedwith them, who gives them that, and then awakensin the morning to write upper case poems aboutANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ toldus, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybeit was the upper case. you were one of thebest female poets and I told the publishers,editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved youlike a man loves a woman he never touches, onlywrites to, keeps little photographs of. I would haveloved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling acigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, alllovers betray. it didn’ help. you saidyou had a crying bench and it was by a bridge andthe bridge was over a river and you sat on the cryingbench every night and wept for the lovers who hadhurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but neverheard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met youI would probably have been unfair to you or youto me. it was best like this.loveee.. loveeeee bukowski >:D<

  • Islam
    2018-11-26 01:16

    وحيدا مع العالم أجمعاللحم يغطي العظامثم يضيفون دماغاوأحيانا روحا.النساء يضربنالمزهريات عرض الحائطوالرجال يفرطون في السكرولا أحد يجد ضالته،لكنهم يحتفظون جميعا بالأملزاحفين من سرير لآخر.اللحم يبحث عن ما هو أَنْفَسُ من اللحم.ليس هناك أي خلاص:كلنا منذورين لقدرٍ فريد.لا أحد يعثرُ علي مثيله.امتلأت المدينة بالقاذوراتامتلأت المزابلامتلأت الملاجئامتلأت المستشفياتامتلأت المقابرإنها فعلا الأشياءُ الوحيدةالتي تمتلئ.

  • ميقات الراجحي
    2018-11-14 00:11

    Bukowski, the poet that not even translation betrays him, this is how I found Bukowski. An amazing poet that has rich soiled land in which he can plow however he wants according to his rich dictionary, and its enormous space yields him great production, even though some of his writings words isn't taken from old English but rather from modern English or papers English, and he intentionally do so, so he chooses easier words and rather pour his focus on the poetic image.The loneliness that's caused by marginalization has remained for many years between him and America's critics, that they didn't even count him to any group that thrives with literaturic life not to mention he was independent except of himself; so he distend himself from any institutionalized or governmental representation and rather remained loyal to the proletariat oppressed class.The poet has to be free from everything or else...the poet won't fly.Bukowski had his own technique in books that his poetics impacted his narratives that his novels seemed poetic deepened in good narration far from any trace of a plot, in return, novels, the dialogue mode, and the multi personality in poetic texts has given him another dimension even though that's not innovative in poetry but it was one of his poetic marks.His clear care for the oppressed class gives him points on the humane side and the intellectual orientation; As a reader however I wouldn't want to read a collection that all of its poems addresses one subject only like his collections that are written for the poor, oppression and the destitute. So, from a few collections his language started to be repetitive, despite different portrayed images, and his subjects started to get repetitive, despite different portrayed images also, and he was prolonging a single text on the expense of language. But the poetic image stays to be his differentiating mark.؛“she is no longerthe beautiful womanshe was. she sendsphotos of herselfsitting upon a rockby the oceanalone and damned.I could have hadher once. I wonderif she thinks Icould havesaved her?”؛“when the phone ringsI too would like to hear wordsthat might easesome of this.”

  • Aritry Das
    2018-11-24 00:07

    You either love Bukowski or you don't. There is no in between these two choices.Life as we live it - is depicted in his verses like a nude woman, stripped off all covers and ornaments, bared, with all the beauty and ugliness. There's no pretension, there's no guilt, only bare faces with intense eyes of his muses, and objects and every little nice things and dirty stuff, lots of drunkenness and love, in various forms. I love this book of poems and I don't need to say why. You like reading Bukowski because you just do, giving particular reasons would never be okay and enough.Here's one of my many favorite pieces-"There is a loneliness in this world so greatthat you can see it in the slow movement ofthe hands of a clock.people so tiredmutilatedeither by love or no love."

  • غيث حسن
    2018-11-16 00:06

    يعيش بوكوفسكي ويقتات على أمور لا تساعد على العيش حقا، فشعره يستمد الاوكسجين من الألم ومن فناء الإنسان ومن الموت أيضا، ذلك الفناء الذي لا يستطيع أحد البقاء بعده سوى بالكلمات والأخيلة وقليل من الشعر لذلك كان بوكوفسكي شاعرا جامحا. هو لا يكتب عن السعادة لكنه يجعلك سعيدا بطريقته في السعادة، يجعلك تؤمن بالهامش الكبير، وبأن الغائط الذي يتساقط من السماء جميل جدا وحيوي أكثر من كلمة حب كاذبة يقولها شخص ما، إنه يربطنا به كما يربط علبة حلوى شريط أسود عندما تحل الفيونكه تخرج كل قصيدة لكي تنقش في قلوبنا صمتها وضجرها. هذا الديون الذي أصابني برجفة من عنوانه لا يقرأ حتى يترك على الرف فيما بعد، إنه ديوان الليلة والنهار والساعة والدقيقة، مزق اوراقه واحتفظ بورقة منه كل يوم في جيبك وأنت ذاهب إلى المكان الذي تريد ان تركل أحدا ما !

  • Joseph
    2018-11-17 20:04

    70s shock and exploitation on the surface. A little deeper down brutal honesty, emptiness, and openness. Poems like "The Bee" expose much more of the poet's soul than may have been intended.

  • Faith-Anne
    2018-11-13 22:30

    Bukowski is one of those poets you can show to people who swear up & down that poetry is all rhyming & flowers. Even if you hate Bukowski, you must admit that he's an original. I love Bukowski. His poems are a perfect break from the 'real' world. They're brutally honest & lovely in their grotesqueness. This collection is wonderful. Sure it isn't for the faint of heart, but Bukowski really does prove that poetry comes in all shapes & sizes.

  • Fatema Hassan , bahrain
    2018-12-03 23:09

    بوكوفسكي ..تلفحك حرارة شعره حين تنمو في إعجابك، تدرك أن كلفة القراءة له أن تتخلى عن جزء من عقلك.فتقرر التخلي ببساطة! كيف تتحول القصيدة لحوار أخرق ينجب محاورة هادفة ؟ أي تجديد شعري هذا ما ستقرؤه في كلماته؟شاعر يقُصّ قصائده علينا قبل أن ينام تذوق الكلمات في هذا العالم و فينا.( بعض الناس لا يصابون قط بلوثة الجنون أي حياة رهيبة ..تلك التي يعيشونها؟ )( كانت الجياد حقيقيةأكثر من أبي وكان بإمكانها أن تدوس على قدمي ولكنها لم تفعل )( ليست الشيخوخة بجريمةلكن الإحساس بالخجلأمام حياة هدرت عمدًا بين كل هذه الحيوات المهدورة عمدًا هو كذلك!)( حين يمتلئ الحذاء دمًا تعلم أنّه مات!)http://youtu.be/c_2dKXZBN6Eبعد أن تتوغل في سحر مقطعه المشهور هذا، يصعب عليك ألا تبحث عن كلمات هذا المخلوق الحزين، يصعب أن تتقاطع كلماته فلا تشهق! هو يعتصرّ في الروح شيء .

  •  رؤد
    2018-12-08 23:05

    كانت لحياة بوكوفسكي الكادحه ندوب واضحه بين اسطرِ شِعرهقد آسميه "أدب الفُقراء" او "الأدب الساخر فـ على طاولة الحانات القميئه وبين آزقة الشوارع كان بوكوفسكيعلى الأرصفه، وشبابيك البيوت القديمه كانت لـ كلماتهِ صدىبين دخان السجآئر المُتصاعد، وظلام غُرفتهِ، وجيوبهِ الفآرغه كان ظِلاله حاضراً حاضراً وبـ سُخريه عند كُل نقطة نهايهوانا اقرأ هذا الكتاب رأيتُ بوكوفسكي بـ شخصيتين الشخصيه الآولى : شخصيه عآريه من جميع قيم الحياة الكآذبه كانت الواقعيه والوضوح فيهآ هيَ المُسيطرهلَمس الضجيج، وربتَ على كتِف الفقر، وحاول لملمة الشتات والشخصيه الثانيه : كآن فيها بـ كـامل برجوازيتهِ الكاذبه و بـ حجم سوء هذا العالم المُتأنق بـ مظاهر خدَّآعه، كانت المرآيا تعكسهُ بـ وضوح وربما هذا ماكان يُريده بوكوفسكي آن يُرى في شِعرهِ .! .

  • Dania Abutaha
    2018-11-20 01:30

    اعتقد اني وقعت في حب الكاتب ...لا اريد ان انهي ما اقرا ....اعظم شعراء الولايات المتحده...جان بول سارتر منbeat generatioاسلوبه ممتع جدا لي...سابحث عن مزيد له بالتاكيد...مما قاله هذا الشاعر...كان من الجيد ان اشرب و قررت انني احب هذه الحاله فهي كانت تبعد الواضح عني و ربما اذا استطاع المرء بما فيه الكفايه الابتعاد عن الواضح فلن يعود واضحا هو نفسه...و يقول اما ان ابقى في مكتب البريد و اصاب بالجنون و اما ان استمر بالكتابه و اموت جوعا و قد قررت الموت جوعا...يقول اسال الثوري اسال الرجل الذي يضع راسه في فم اسد....ان الثور عموما يقف نقيا و يموت نقيا...ما يبقى نتنا بعد ذلك هو العالم...لو كنت رجل بقدر ما هو هر..لو كان ثمه رجال من هذا النوع لاستطاع العالم ان يبدأ...اسندت صورتها على المذياع قرب المروحه فتحركت كشىء حي....لن اتمكن قط من فهم البشر...في هذه الغرفه ما زالت ساعات الحب تصنع الظلال... حين  رحلت اخذت معك تقريبا كل شيء....الكلمه الصعبه التي لطالما خشيت قولها يمكن ان تقال الان احبك.....هؤلاء البشر ليسوا حالات طارئه انهم كوارث ....كل امسيه مهدوره ليست الا اعتداء على الحياه الوحيده التي تملكها...لا ينبغي ان يدفع المرء قط تذكره دخول الى الجحيم...اتمنى ان ابكي لكن للاسف غباء...اتمنى ان اؤمن لكن الايمان مقبره...بعضهن شبه مجنونات لكن و لا واحده فيهن بلا معنى...هناك في الحياه ما هو اسوأ من ان تكون وحيدا لكن غالبا يتطلب الامر دهرا لادراك ذلك و غالبا حين تدرك ذلك يكون قد فات الاوان و ليس ثمه اسوا من فوات الاوان....الالم يجلس يطفو ينتظر يكون. ..اكتفت بالنظر الى و اظن انها كانت المره الاولى التى ادركت فيها ماساه كوننا معا...امور كهذه تبدأ عاده في لحظه ما...و اخيرا الثورات الحقيقيه تنبع من القرف الحقيقي حين تسوء الامور كفايه...تقتل الهرره الاسد...رائع في الكل و الجزئيات....ممتع ...احبك🤞

  • محمود النوري
    2018-11-16 20:23

    اليوم التقيت على متن القطارعبقرياً في السادسة من عمره،جلس قربيبينما مضى القطارعلى طول الساحل ثم وصلنا إلى المحيط فنظر إليّ وقال:أليس جميلاً.كانت تلك أول مرةأدرك فيها ذلك.

  • Sura✿
    2018-12-07 04:14

    ✦المنطقة التي تفصل الدماغ عن الروحتتأثر بالتجربة بشتى الطرق .. بعظهم يفقد عقله و يصبح روحاً :المجنونبعضهم يفقد روحه و يصبح عقلاً : المثقفبعضهم يفقد الاثنين :المقبول اجتماعياً....✦بعض الناس لا يصابون قط بلوثة الجنوناي حياة رهيبة تلك التي يعيشونها....✦الهاتف صنع للحالات الطارئة فحسب هؤلاء البشر ليسوا حالات طارئةانهم كوارث....✦حين تكف النساءعن حمل المرايا الى كل مكان يذهبن اليهفعندئذ ربمايمكنهن ان يحدثننيعن التحرر....✦هناك في الحياة ماهو اسوأ من ان تكون وحيداًلكن غالباً ما يتطلب الامر دهراً لادراك ذلكو غالباً حين تدرك ذلكيكون قد فات الاوانوليس ثمة ماهو اسوءمن فوات الاوان

  • بثينة العيسى
    2018-11-19 20:10

    قصيدة بوكوفسكي ذكية، ولكنها ليست فجة. هي مضحكة في أحايين كثيرة، ومبكية في أحايين أكثر، ولا مبالية غالباً.المبالاة هي ما لم يعجبني، أحس بأن شرط الشعر هو انفتاحٌ مطلق على العالم، ولا يسعك أن تكون متفرجاً لا مبالياً إلى هذه الدرجة، ولكن انحيازه - غير المباشر - إلى المسحوقين، الهامشيين، يطفو على السطح من حينٍ إلى آخر، ويفضح إنسانيته.وجدتُ بأنك كلما تقدمت في الكتاب صارت القصائد أجمل / أطرف / أقسى ..

  • Ashley
    2018-12-03 00:05

    Ever felt like there was no one for you, nothing and no one who could hold your existence? As if you were drifting through life-going from person to person, place to place, job to job? Read this-it might wake you up. And make you feel a lot less lonely. Devastatingly, shatteringly beautiful.

  • Ayse Kelce
    2018-12-05 22:13

    *abartılı bir reverans yapar**kendini yere atar*"MASTER!"

  • Pouya.Good
    2018-11-10 21:06

    بعضی از کتاب ها گند سکس و حرفایی که حول و حوش سکسن رو در می یارنگویا که اندیشه های شاعرانه بوکفسکی جز از تختی به تخت دیگر فراتر نمی رن...نمونه ای از اشعار:گوشي رو برداشتم : الو؟گفت، "دوستت دارم ."گفتم: ممنون.گفت:"فقط همين؟ "گفتم:بله.گفت:"گه بخور و قطع كرد!"وقتي داشتم به حموم برميگشتم،فكر كردم كه عشق چقدر سريع خشك ميشه،حتي سريعتر از اسپرم .http://s8.picofile.com/file/829948070...

  • Andy Carrington
    2018-11-27 03:22

    Honest / Defeatist / Deeply-personal / All-seeing.How poetry should be.

  • hanan al-herbish al-herbish
    2018-12-10 03:10

    هذا الديوان .. لا تكفيه قراءة واحدة .. هذا الديوان .. صديق كل هؤلاء الذين يشعرون بالوحدة في الأزقة المظلمة و الأرصفة المبللة بالمطر .. ديوان المعدمين المهمّشين المختبئين في الأفنية الخلفية .. البسطاء الذين يخرجون للعمل كل صباح ، و يرجعون الى بيوتهم ليناموا ملء اعينهم .. ديوان التفاصيل الصغيرة التي اقتنصتها عدسة بوكوڤسكي الحسّاسة ..المعدم .. السكّير الذي يسبح في قعر الكأس .. يستنطق التفاصيل الصغيرة ، التافهة ، و المهملة التي تحيط بنا بصمتها الذي ينطوي على الكثير من المعاني و الدلالات .. لقد أحببت بوكوڤسكي كثيراً بدءاً من اختياره للعنوان حتى نهاية الديوان .. أحببت حبّه للموسيقى الكلاسيكية .. و حضور فاغنر ، ماهلر ، بتهوڤن و كل هؤلاء الذين ساهموا في تكوين مزاجه الرومانسي الخاص ّ..أحببت اطلاعه على مختلف الآداب و الأعمال الخالدة ..تأثره بـ " شيخوف " و " ديستوڤسكي " اللذان أحبهما كثيراً .. كما أحببت خجله .. و حسّه الإنساني العالي .. عطفه على الحيوان .. و لا سيما في قصيدته التي تكلم فيها عن مصارعة الثيران التي تفضح نتانة هذا العالم ..هذا و على الرغم من كرهه للنساء كم يزعمون .. الا أنني لم أجد في هذا الديوان سوى ما يتكلم عن جمال المرأة التي تذكره بالصلوات .. المحاريب .. و الكنائس ..لغة بوكوڤسكي جميلة و شاعرية بحق .. لا ريب و روحه التواقة للجمال تتجلى من خلال قصائده التي تحمل بعداً فلسفياً يستحق الوقوف عنده مطوّلاً ..

  • Hoda Elsayed
    2018-11-20 00:24

    دائما يُطلب منا أن نكون متفهمينلوجه نظر الآخر، أيًا تكن بالية، أو حمقاء،أو بغيضة.يُطلَب من المرءأن ينظر بلطف إلى خطأهم الكامل إلى حياتهم المهدورةلاسيما إذا كانوا مسنينلكن الكهولة هى حصيلة حياتنا.هؤلاء بلغوا الشيخوخة بطريقة سيئةلأنهم عاشوا بطريقة ضبابية،رفضوا ان يروا.هذا ليس خطأهم؟خطأ من إذن؟خطأى؟يُطلَب منى إخفاء وجهة نظرى عنهمخوفًا من خوفهم.ليست الشيخوخة بجريمةلكن الإحساس بالخجل أمام حياة هُدِرَت عمدًا بين كل هذه الحيوات المهدورة عمدًاهو كذلك.

  • Kathryn
    2018-12-05 20:01

    I did not enjoy this collection nearly as much as what I have already read by Bukowski, though this was still well worth my time. I had planned on changing my rating to 3 stars but then I started flipping to the pages I had saved and I am now comfortable with the 4 stars. Once again, when I had finished, the book looked very important and worthy, with so many of my little paper scraps hanging out, noting the pages of poems I did not want to forget. This collection lacked the fire I felt in the last Bukowski book I read. Most of the poems were observations about people he encountered, such as other poets, unsavory people he drank with or would pass on the street, people who would call him out of the blue to talk about his poetry, and most especially, women. I do not care what anyone else says, I think Bukowski loved women. Or he loved flawed women. I find it odd that people can walk away from his poems thinking he was a male chauvinist. I think he viewed people fairly equally. He disparaged everyone pretty evenly, including himself. I think Bukowski was gifted with a lack of fear of being honest, a true ability to be blunt regardless of the feedback. For myself, I always appreciate honesty, even if it comes across as insensitive. At least in book form. In real life, I tend to be oversensitive of other peoples feelings, which I guess is part of why I find Bukowski so fascinating since he does not write as such. Reading Bukowski while my Grandparents were visiting, attempting to snag a poem here and there, was odd. I kept the book in my bathroom over the last week, reading it while sitting on the pot, and I found all of this fitting. Bukowski included a few poems about family, and considering my family was visiting, these poems have stood out more for me than some of his more recognized ones. a gold pocket watch was one of these, along with my old man. I liked both of these a great deal. Of the poems about women, sexpot was towards the beginning and it stuck with me. one of the hottest and the end of a short affair were funny and trying to get even was funny and disturbing. the girl on the bus stop bench was very pervy, another one of those extremely honest moments in my opinion. Poems like pacific telephone made me think Bukowski enjoyed writing about his confessed-in-writing addiction to whores. He included many poems that seemed like simple bragging, how his fame enabled him to sleep with young women a third his own age. But then he would throw in a poem such as the bee, which clearly pointed out how he recognized that such a life did not necessarily mean he was content or successful. Many of these poems made me feel very sorry for the man. I loved one for old snaggle-tooth, the strangest site you ever did see, and winter. I also liked the poems where he would poke fun at intellectuals, namely poets and professors, such as in the little girls. I should probably frame a copy of the insane always loved me, as I have joked around for years about being a freak-magnet, along with one for my mom since we now know it to be genetic. I have included two poems in the hopes of interesting other readers...rain or shinethe vultures at the zoo (all three of them) sit very quietly in their caged tree and below on the ground are chunks of rotten meat. the vultures are over-full. our taxes have fed them well. we move on to the next cage. a man is in there sitting on the ground eating his own shit. i recognize him as our former mailman. his favorite expression had been: "have a beautiful day." that day i did.a gold pocket watchmy grandfather was a tall Germanwith a strange smell on his breath.he stood very straightin front of his small houseand his wife hated him and his children thought him odd.I was six the first time we metand he gave me all his war medals.the second time I met him he gave me his gold pocket watch.it was very heavy and I took it home and wound it very tightand it stopped runningwhich made me feel bad.I never saw him againand my parents never spoke of himnor did my grandmotherwho had long agostopped living with him.once I asked about him and they told mehe drank too muchbut I liked him beststanding very straightin front of his houseand saying, "hello, Henry, youand I, we know each other."(Am I the only person who pictures Christopher Walken from Pulp Fiction while reading this last poem? I know the poem has little in common with the scene but reading Bukowski makes me feel as I do when I watch things such as that movie and the gold watch in each just clicks too well.)

  • Ryan Milbrath
    2018-11-27 22:09

    Bukowski’s poetry brings to mind the free verse ranting found on scrawled on bathroom stalls with permanent marker. Love is a Dog from Hell provides a collection of his finest prose on woman, every-day living, drinking, and of – of course – love (in its most low and basest forms). I believe Bukowski is one of the greatest poets in the modern world of poetry not because of his style, topics, rhyme schemes, or his connection with the beats. I believe he is one of the best because of his honesty. Like Selby, Bukowski, does not seem afraid to blink in the face of his own debasement. Bukowski writes with unflinching honesty about drinking himself into a comatose like stupor, fornicating with another faceless girl, or the debauchery of a Saturday night in the back bars of New York Bukowski’s poetry reads more like a narrative. It’s free verse, and usually depicts a snap shot of life experienced by a niche segment of the population. Is Bukowski an asshole? Many would probably think so… However, at least he isn’t afraid to record his version of the human experience and for that, I can give him a lot of credit.

  • Raegan Butcher
    2018-11-27 00:19

    Bukowski has so many books of poetry that it almost staggers the imagination; if one were to rank them in over-all quality, i would have to say this is in his top five. Written as his early to mid 1970s underground cult hero/legend status was firmly rising to a peak, this collection shows him to be as much the sensitive sufferer in the battlegrounds of love as anyone, despite his persistently negative reception among critics as nothing more than a drunken, vulgar boor.

  • طاهر الزهراني
    2018-11-26 03:00

    من أروع الدواوين المترجمة التي مرت عليّ، واعتقد أن سبب روعة القصائد، استخدامه لبعض الصور والمفارقات، وتوظيف تقنية القص والنهايات الفجة والصادمة، الإشتغال على الأشياء التفاهة والسخيفة والإهتمام بها هو ما جعل هذا الشعر بهذه الروعة والتفرد، طبعاً هذا الديوان عبارة عن مختارات، كم أتمنى أن تترجم كل دواوين هذا الرجل للعربية.