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 Post subject: Literatură
PostPosted: Tue Apr 04, 2017 7:53 am 
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topic pentru cei tari în litere :mrgreen: :geek:.

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 Post subject: Re: Literatură
PostPosted: Sat Apr 15, 2017 4:50 am 
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fooling Marie (the poem)

he met her at the racetrack, a strawberry
blonde with round hips, well-bosomed, long legs,
turned-up nose, flower mouth, in a pink dress,
wearing white high-heeled shoes.
she began asking him questions about various
horses while looking up at him with her pale blue
eyes.

he suggested the bar and they had a drink, then
watched the next race together.
he hit fifty-win on a sixty-to-one shot and she
jumped up and down.
then she whispered in his ear,
“you’re the magic man! I want to fuck you!”
he grinned and said, “I’d like to, but
Marie . . . my wife . . .”
she laughed, “we’ll go to a motel!”

so they cashed the ticket, went to the parking lot,
got into her car. “I’ll drive you back when
we’re finished,” she smiled.

they found a motel about a mile
west. she parked, they got out, checked in, went to
room 302.
they had stopped for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s
on the way. he stood and took the glasses out of the
cellophane. as she undressed, he poured two.

she had a marvellous young body. she sat on the edge of
the bed sipping at the Jack Daniel’s as he
undressed. he felt awkward, fat and old
but knew he was lucky: it promised to be his best day
ever.
then he too sat on the edge of the bed with her and
his Jack Daniel’s. she reached over
and grabbed him between his legs, bent over
and went down on him.

he pulled her under the covers and they played some more.
finally, he mounted her and it was great, it was a
miracle, but soon it ended, and when she
went to the bathroom he poured two more drinks
thinking, I’ll shower real good, Marie will never
know.

she came out and they sat in bed
making small talk.
“I’m going to shower now,” he told her,
“I’ll be out soon.”

“o.k., cutie,” she said.

he soaped good in the shower, washing away all the
perfume, the woman-smell.

“hurry up, daddy!” he heard her say.

“I won’t be long, baby!” he yelled from the
shower.

he got out, toweled off, then opened the bathroom
door and stepped out.

the motel room was empty
she was gone.

on some impulse he ran to the closet, pull the door
open: nothing there but coat hangers.

then he noticed that his clothes were gone, his under-
wear, his shirt, his pants with the car keys and his wallet,
all the money, his shoes, his stockings, everyhting.

on another impulse he looked under the bed.
nothing.

then he saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, half full,
standing on the dresser.
he walked over and poured a drink.
as he did he saw the word scrawled on the dresser
mirror in pink lipstick: SUCKER.

he drank the whiskey, put the glass down and watched himself
in the mirror, very fat, very tired, very old.
he had no idea what to do next.

he carried the whiskey, back to the bad, sat down,
lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the light from the
boulevard came in through the dusty blinds, then he just sat
and looked out and watched the cars, passing back and
forth.

(from The Pleasure of the Damned: Poems, 1951 -1993. Ed John Martin. New York: HarperCollins Publishers 2007, 33-35)

You Don't Know What Love Is 
(an evening with Charles Bukowski)


You don’t know what love is Bukowski said 
I’m 51 years old look at me 
I’m in love with this young broad 
I got it bad but she’s hung up too 
so it’s all right man that’s the way it should be 
I get in their blood and they can’t get me out 
They try everything to get away from me 
but they all come back in the end 
They all came back to me except 
the one I planted 
I cried over that one 
but I cried easy in those days 
Don’t let me get onto the hard stuff man 
I get mean then 
I could sit here and drink beer 
with you hippies all night 
I could drink ten quarts of this beer 
and nothing it’s like water 
But let me get onto the hard stuff 
and I’ll start throwing people out windows 
I’ll throw anybody out the window 
I’ve done it 
But you don’t know what love is 
You don’t know because you’ve never 
been in love it’s that simple 
I got this young broad see she’s beautiful 
She calls me Bukowski 
Bukowski she says in this little voice 
and I say What 
But you don’t know what love is 
I’m telling you what it is 
but you aren’t listening 
There isn’t one of you in this room 
would recognize love if it stepped up 
and buggered you in the ass 
I used to think poetry readings were a copout 
Look I’m 51 years old and I’ve been around 
I know they’re a copout 
but I said to myself Bukowski 
starving is even more of a copout 
So there you are and nothing is like it should be 
That fellow what’s his name Galway Kinnell 
I saw his picture in a magazine 
He has a handsome mug on him 
but he’s a teacher
Christ can you imagine 
But then you’re teachers too 
here I am insulting you already 
No I haven’t heard of him 
or him either 
They’re all termites 
Maybe it’s ego I don’t read much anymore 
but these people who build 
reputations on five or six books 
termites 
Bukowski she says 
Why do you listen to classical music all day 
Can’t you hear her saying that 
Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day 
That surprises you doesn’t it 
You wouldn’t think a crude bastard like me 
could listen to classical music all day 
Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann 
Shit I couldn’t write up here 
Too quiet up here too many trees 
I like the city that’s the place for me 
I put on my classical music each morning 
and sit down in front of my typewriter 
I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see 
and I say Bukowski you’re a lucky man 
Bukowski you’ve gone through it all 
and you’re a lucky man 
and the blue smoke drifts across the table 
and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue 
and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk 
and I puff on the cigar like this 
and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this and take a deep breath 
and I begin to write 
Bukowski this is the life I say 
it’s good to be poor it’s good to have hemorrhoids 
it’s good to be in love 
But you don’t know what it’s like 
You don’t know what it's like to be in love 
If you could see her you’d know what I mean 
She thought I’d come up here and get laid 
She just knew it 
She told me she knew it 
Shit I’m 51 years old and she’s 25 
and we’re in love and she’s jealous 
Jesus it’s beautiful 
she said she’d claw my eyes out if I came up here 
and got laid 
Now that’s love for you 
What do any of you know about it 
Let me tell you something 
I’ve met men in jail who had more style 
than the people who hang around colleges 
and go to poetry readings 
They’re bloodsuckers who come to see 
if the poet’s socks are dirty 
or if he smells under the arms 
Believe me I won’t disappoint em 
But I want you to remember this 
there’s only one poet in this room tonight 
only one poet in this town tonight 
maybe only one real poet in this country tonight 
and that’s me 
What do any of you know about life 
What do any of you know about anything 
Which of you here has been fired from a job 
or else has beaten up your broad 
or else has been beaten up by your broad 
I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times 
They’d fire me then hire me back again 
I was a stockboy for them when I was 35 
and then got canned for stealing cookies 
I know what's it like I’ve been there 
I’m 51 years old now and I’m in love 
This little broad she says 
Bukowski 
and I say What and she says 
I think you’re full of shit 
and I say baby you understand me 
She’s the only broad in the world 
man or woman 
I’d take that from 
But you don’t know what love is 
They all came back to me in the end too 
every one of em came back 
except that one I told you about 
the one I planted We were together seven years 
We used to drink a lot 
I see a couple of typers in this room but 
I don’t see any poets 
I’m not surprised 
You have to have been in love to write poetry 
and you don’t know what it is to be in love 
that’s your trouble 
Give me some of that stuff 
That’s right no ice good 
That’s good that’s just fine 
So let’s get this show on the road 
I know what I said but I’ll have just one 
That tastes good 
Okay then let’s go let’s get this over with 
only afterwards don’t anyone stand close 
to an open window

(from All of Us: The Collected Poems. New York: Vintage Contemporaries, 16-20)

două citate edificatoare, primul semnat Carver, celălalt îi aparține lui Bukowski (sursa: internet).

“In Fires, I even dedicated a poem to him. It’s titled ‘You Don't Know What Love Is.’ It’s kind of the story of an evening that he spent at my house, and many lines are nothing more than phrases taken directly from what he said [. . .] Well, Bukowski is a really strange guy; it’s almost impossible to agree with him. I was in my early twenties and I told him that I liked his poems. He answered that I must have a terrible taste.”

“Man, that night he wrote about me I was drunk, naturally, and screaming at all those professors and college kids ‘babies, I look around the room and I see plenty of typers but I see no writers for you guys don’t know what love is.’ oh boy, I was singing that night and Carver caught that.”

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Last edited by phil™ on Wed Oct 23, 2019 7:10 am, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: Literatură
PostPosted: Tue Aug 08, 2017 10:35 pm 
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Joined: Wed Apr 05, 2017 11:48 am
Posts: 54
Radu Pavel Gheo - Disco Titanic.

Ca și timișorean, nu ai cum să nu-ți placă această carte. Comunism, securitate, revoluție, influențele yugoslave, clinciurile dintre croați și sărbi, invazia oltenilor, baschet, fotbal, Croația, Bosnia, Serbia, Republica Banat, toate într-o carte pe care eu am devorat-o în 3 zile.

Ca să citez din carte:"Lisîn veri cherful, ai șol sei zis onli oans": Asta-i de păstrat la nepoți!


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 Post subject: Re: Literatură
PostPosted: Wed Aug 09, 2017 11:05 pm 
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Joined: Sun Apr 02, 2017 11:24 am
Posts: 156
micky wrote:
Radu Pavel Gheo - Disco Titanic.

Ca și timișorean, nu ai cum să nu-ți placă această carte. Comunism, securitate, revoluție, influențele yugoslave, clinciurile dintre croați și sărbi, invazia oltenilor, baschet, fotbal, Croația, Bosnia, Serbia, Republica Banat, toate într-o carte pe care eu am devorat-o în 3 zile.

Ca să citez din carte:"Lisîn veri cherful, ai șol sei zis onli oans": Asta-i de păstrat la nepoți!
Bine, bine, dar de unde o luăm?


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 Post subject: Re: Literatură
PostPosted: Thu Aug 10, 2017 7:53 pm 
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Posts: 67
Cum de unde? De la Micky ! ☺

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 Post subject: Re: Literatură
PostPosted: Fri Aug 11, 2017 11:04 am 
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Joined: Wed Apr 05, 2017 11:48 am
Posts: 54
Mortaro, chiar tu, mâna dreaptă a lu' Google, să întrebi asta? :)

Pot să o împrumut, când o recuperez, am uitat-o în concediu.


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