Posts Tagged ‘ Bukowski ’

Two Texts by Clayton Eshleman: (2) Orphic Ontologies II – Nomadics

Orphic Ontologies II

The essence of human power:
access to the cosmos from the heavens down to
earth & into the Cro-Magnon underworld

Charles Olson on Wallace Stevens. to Creeley, May 5, 1952: “For the lie in Stevens, however much
the pleasure in the play of words, is his language, that, it is without rhythm because it is without passion
which is person (not personae, that further divide against mass).”

To Creeley, May 6, 1952: “We both had a sudden excitement, just now talking, when it turns out (it was
that fucking Stevens who had provoked it by some line about poetry to undo dirt) O that dirty Crispin of
his—dirtier than Prufrock): those who keep themselves away from life (again protecting a—the
—pudenda) that Con said
I don’t feel any dirt
And Christ I loved her, for, there ain’t none, and those who have it, who have this thing of original sin hung around their cocks like a  dead albatross, are of another tribe, a tribe of sin not at all of the  tribe of men
And it struck us both just then what what makes communication with you so open is, that you have none of this shit in you: you are free of that.”

In the beginning was drawing, line on stone or bone,
consciousness united with its own perceptions: womb of the creative!
A totally metaphoric world, no difference between subject & object.
Dream holes: anywhere but nowhere in particular.

James Hillman: “The most distressing images in dreams and fantasies, those we shy from for their disgusting distortion and perversion, are precisely the ones that break the allegorical frame of what we think we know about this person or that, this trait of ourselves or that. The ‘worst’ images are thus the best, for these are the ones that restore a figure to its pristine power as a numinous person at work in the soul.”

Think of this page as a phare on night’s alabaster dives & cornucopian emptiness, cross-wired to the
ochre of farraginous dreams.

One’s place is an expanding lesion in ancestral fog. Ultimately I am, sitting here, a ghost figure crouched
before a cave wall 20,000 years ago.

Pregnant abyss of the enigma of male birthing. Non-existent gestation—egg fertile only with the maggot
of self.

Is our war on animals a planetary cannibalization brought about by self eating self to reach non-
existence in a masque put on by hydrogen mountains & sulfur assassins?

The salmagundi of “now” & “forever” is the crucible that contains the frailty of eternity.

James Hillman: “Images are the compelling source of morality and religion as well as the
conscientiousness of art.”  Show this to Gary Snyder [See the Winter 1996 Paris Review Snyder Interview].

The writhing of precision as it meets time.

Perception is the handmaiden of imagination.

Cornucopia of the sunshine forest with its anteater molecules,
a Reich bion lurking in each word
whose apogee is cratered with emptied hives.

Sun as a circumference concentrate.

It is not enough to represent, to re-
present, the present as leftovers.
Warmed up past is forever at our heels.

The analphabetic, orthochromatic, anti-nature of the mind when freed of cauliflower containment.

Alive to the dead end in every observational move.

At the corner of Bukowski & Ashbery a groin helmeted with bridal choirs.

Fingering the pluck of plumeless existence ripe with skinned heads.

A Mayan anaconda coils below Arcadia’s latent still.

A stratigraphic sequence reveals its ember-work, its furnace forum always underway. It rests in a floral
nest, a leaden, still hissing egg.

James Hillman: “We have to tie terrorism to its roots in our religious consciousness. A terrorist
is the product of our education that says that fantasy is not real, that says aesthetics is just for artists, that says
soul is only for priests, imagination is trivial or dangerous and for crazies, and that reality, what we must
adapt to, is the external world and that world is dead. A terrorist is a result of this whole long process of
wiping out the psyche.”

Charred girders call out to us. Screeens of a stirring.
Parasites in sponge-like textures. Afterlife of the gone.

Yet Poussin’s satyr-scape is no more.
The anointing of the dead Adonis. No more.
Pan’s shadow as leafy quilts. Psychic clouds boiling westward. No more.
Blind Orion searching for the risen sun. No more.

Source: Two Texts by Clayton Eshleman: (2) Orphic Ontologies II – Nomadics

Charles Bukowski – La fin (Finish, 1969) | BEAUTY WILL SAVE THE WORLD

nous sommes comme des roses qui ne se sont jamais souciées
d’éclore quand nous aurions dû éclore et
c’est comme si
le soleil avait fini par être écoeuré
c’est comme si le soleil était un esprit qui
avait désespéré de nous.


we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
it is as if the sun were a mind that has
given up on us.


Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) – Extrait du poème « Finish » – Les jours s’en vont comme des chevaux sauvages dans les collines (Editions du Rocher, 2008) – Traduit de l’américain par Thierry Beauchamp – The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over The Hills (Black Sparrow Press, Los Angeles, 1969) – Written circa 1965

Source: Charles Bukowski – La fin (Finish, 1969) | BEAUTY WILL SAVE THE WORLD

Charles Bukowski – Pas de meneurs, s’il vous plaît | BEAUTY WILL SAVE THE WORLD

Pas de meneurs, s’il vous plaît


Inventez-vous puis réinventez-vous,
ne nagez pas dans le même bourbier
inventez-vous puis réinventez-vous
libérez-vous des griffes de la médiocrité.

Inventez-vous puis réinventez-vous,
changez de ton et de forme si souvent qu’on ne pourra

Ressourcez-vous et
acceptez ce qui est
mais uniquement selon les termes que vous avez inventés
et réinventés

apprenez par vous-même.

Et réinventez votre vie parce qu’il le faut ;
c’est votre vie et
son histoire
et le présent
qu’à vous.


No leaders, Please

Invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
don’t swim in the same slough.
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself
stay out of the clutches of mediocrity.

Invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can
categorize you.

Reinvigorate yourself and
accept what is
but only on the terms that you have invented
and reinvented.

be self-taught.

And reinvent your life because you must;
it is your life and
its history
and the present
belong only to


Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) – The Pleasures of the Damned (Ecco Press, 2007) – Traduit de l’américain par Stéphane Chabrières

Source: Charles Bukowski – Pas de meneurs, s’il vous plaît | BEAUTY WILL SAVE THE WORLD

Charles Bukowski / Hank’s Bluebird

— thanks to the poet Rita Cummings

* Hank Bukowski would have been churlish with this post but that’s ok because in the same documentary from which this “bluebird” arose i can see him practice shooting each piece of mail as fast as he can into the proper slot of his makeshift post office at home, wisely making sure to keep his anchor clean. ~ yours truly, df