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we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, "be happy Henry!"
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.
my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: "Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?"
and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw
one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled
Charles Bukowski
Read poems about / on: happy, smile, cat, father, mother, fish, water, home, remember, fishing
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| Comments about this poem (a smile to remember by Charles Bukowski) |
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Greenwolfe 1962 (9/1/2008 4:13:00 AM)
I had heard a lot of things about Bukowski, but I had never really read anything
he had written until I read this. Lamont is right. This is not a poem at all.
What I find to be fascinating is rading all the comments by others here calling this a poem. It is hilarious. And it may be the best part about this whole thing. As for
the prose piece that Bukowski actually wrote, it is absolutely wonderful prose.
I love sentiment, and this piece is loaded with it. I owe this man an apology.
GW62 |
Lamont Palmer (7/20/2008 10:29:00 AM)
Interesting, indeed, but it isn't a poem. It's merely a story in which an actual poet would write a poem about. Buk never wanted to be a poet and he hated poetry. But did he spin some weird, sad and funny yarns on paper? Definitely. -LP |
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Charles Bukowski
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