Photo: Charles Bukowski Credit: Patrick Jarnoux, Paris Match via Getty Images When I was in Tel Aviv last year; I went to Steimatzky’s bookstore at the port where, in a random assortment of English language books, I came across Come on in, a volume of poetry by Charles Bukowski. Already the title made me titter and on reading the poems I just laughed and laughed. How does Charles Bukowski manage to be so timeless refreshing, I wonder. Irreverence? Anyway, in the book I came across a poem that features breathing:
have we come to this
Lord, boys,
it‘s been a long time since we
sang a happy tune from
deep in the lungs.
somehow we‘ve allowed them
to shut off our air, our water, our
electricity, our joy.
we‘ve become like them: stilted, exact,
graven,
secretly bitter, smitten by
what‘s small.
Lord, boys,
we‘ve not been kind enough to hippies and
harpies, to sots and slatterns,
to our brothers and
sisters.
Lord, boys,
where has the heroic self
gone?
it‘s gone into hiding, a scattered cat
in a hailstorm!
have we come to this?
have we really come to
this?
as I open my mouth
to sing
a happy tune from
deep in the lungs
a black fly
circles and swoops
in.
Lord!
Charles Bukowski
Source: Charles Bukowski, Come on in, Harper Collins, 2006