Customer Reviews: Read 29 more reviews...
 Great Early Buk October 14, 2007
Mr. Bloom (New York)
1 out of 1 found this review helpful
Love is a Dog From Hell captures Bukowski's considerable talent for capturing a mood and throwing the reader into his world. This is an excellent edition of modern poetry that perfectly captures the degenerated angst of the period. What is particularly striking here is Bukowski's acute awareness of the decay that surrounds him. I thought 'The Worst and the Best' was a strong example:
in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rings
at sexual orgies
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
falling through the sky
firing squads
that's the best" (119)
Read Bukowski and fall into his humorous and dark verse.
at his best August 26, 2007
James Nigh (san bernardino, CA USA)
this is, by far, my favorite collection of poetry from bukowski. it is worth the price alone for one of the poems (i forget the name of it right now) but one thing's for sure......... this will inspire you to write. in general bukowski style, it's crude, crass and beautiful.
 Ain't that the truth~ March 8, 2007
E. Eilers (Minneapolis, MN United States)
Love really is a dog from hell. This writing is very real, very ugly, and very soothing to the sufferer.
The laughter of the mutilated who still need love November 21, 2006
Lynn Hoffman, author:The New Short Course in Wine
24 out of 36 found this review helpful
It's hard to think of a person less likely to
achieve posthumous fame than Charles Bukowski.
His poems don't scan or rhyme, they're imposs-
ible to memorize and the stories that they
tell repeat themselves like a whisky drinker
around 1:30 in the morning. In fact, you could
write a decent-sized essay on why nobody
should ever remember Bukowsky.
And yet. . .
There have been two movies based on his life
and work. His name hasn't exactly become an
adjective: 'Bukowskian' doesn't scan any
better than his poems, but he is certainly a
reference point in the literary imagination of
our time. If someone says "he's a Charles
Bukowski kind of guy" you get an image, bright
and clear like it came from cable TV.
So why? Why hasn't this guy been consigned to
the trash heap of misanthropic/misogynistic,
narcissistic drunks with no sense of rhythm?
Well, for staters, look at the title of this
review. There are enough people who see them-
selves as 'the mutilated who still need love'
to forgive any poet who came up with a line
like that.
Then there's this, from a poem about people
who call him asking for advice about a
literary career:
...they think I have held back my
secret.
I don't write out of
knowledge.
when the phone rings
I too would like to hear words
that might ease
some of this.
that's why my number's
listed.
Now that last poem, called 462-0614
is the one with the bookmark in my copy
of Love is a Dog. Little stuff like that,
small marks of compassion and vulnerability
that you have to dig for, that's a big
part of why we're still reading him today.
In a more general, story-telling sense he is,
like Billy Collins, the master of the double-
back and bite-you-on-the-butt technique of
spinning a very short tale and that's a very
addictive quality in a poet.
Of course, another reason that we're
reading Bukowsky today is that John
Martin out of Santa Rosa, CA sold his
collection of first editions and founded
Black Sparrow Press to publish guys like
this.
So, if you keep a few volumes of poetry
beside the bed, here's one to keep whenever
you need to be reminded that mutilation
leaves scars and that under the scars, the
mutilated need love too.
--Lynn Hoffman, author of THE NEW SHORT COURSE IN WINE and
the forthcoming novel bang BANG from Kunati Books.
Raw and accessible July 8, 2006
VoidMagazine.com (New York, NY)
5 out of 8 found this review helpful
There is no craft here, they say. The poetry flows from Bukowski's hand with such ease that it's akin to that thing they said about Kerouac: "it's just typing." And it's half true, both in Kerouac and Bukowski there's a beautiful measure of rawness and learnedness. Erudition? Bah! We want nothing to do with it, after Hank dispells the greats, and works through them like he does preteen mexican girls. Every poem is accessible, like a Pinsky or Collins, but it goes further because it pushes us to consider ourselves, more than a stroll through Central Park and a statue, but ourselves dirty and drunk with blood on our hands, f***ing that same statue.
To read more reviews check out Void Magazine's website.
|
