Carson Mccullers Poem by Charles Bukowski
Carson Mccullers
she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean
steamer.
all her books of
terrified loneliness
all her books about
the cruelty
of loveless love
were all that was left
of her
as the strolling vacationer
discovered her body
notified the captain
and she was quickly dispatched
to somewhere else
on the ship
as everything
continued just
as
she had written it
I happened here by random. I just happened to be listening to the wireless last might and on came a review of o film biography of Charles Bukowski. I didn't actually know who Bukowski was (I think I had him confused with John Belushi) but the review included the reading of a couple of his poems. One had a line which (much paraphrased) went like 'and the clowns shall be turned into rich heroes' LOL! ! ! So I googled Bukowski hoping to find the full text of the poem, and then came across this site and the list of poems and the poem 'Carson McCullers' She being close to my favourite author, and the author of one of the texts my year 10 daughter has to study for English Lit (Member of the Wedding, 'I hate that book, why are we always given books about children to read') I thought I'd print it out for her (and introduce myself to the forum) .
I like this poem, its directness and the story it tells. He did a fine job in writing this.
'as everything continued just as she had written it' - a sad note on a sad end to a sad tale of a sad soul!
Bukowski's train of thought wasn't just out there. It was out and out there. He was one of a kind.
all her books of terrified loneliness all her books about the cruelty of loveless love.....loneliness, love less life..... beautifully written. tony
That’s the cruelty of loveless love, kills you slowly Nd painfully why? Be with her
A glowing tribute to a typical authoress of particular type of books. A great modern poem of the day.
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4/23/2024 7:36:34 PM # 1.0.0.1119
I deamed of a clock with no hands- it spanned all the hours of every day. That evening I was at a party in a strangers house and looking at their bookcase saw the book by that name. I asked about it, borrowed it, read it and later bought 'the heart is a lonely hunter', which I am reading today. I found this poem in a link at Wikipedia where I was reading her biography. New to me, Carson is (was) an author and thinker with whom I feel a common (kindered) spirit., She is able to bundle story time into a woven fabric to reveal the grace *or lack of it) in her characters hearts. I was in Mississippi in the 60s. I read her books as if viewing living history and real people in a magical television- and my 2010 eyes water over and over. Mr. Bukowski expressed in this elegant poem the melancholic drumbeat of her life and death. I am grateful to them, both.