Poets | Bookstore | Poem of the Day | Top 40 | Search | Comments | Privacy
September 24th, 2014 - we have 234 poets, 8,025 poems and 278,943 comments.
Charles Bukowski - His Wife, The Painter

There are sketches on the walls of men and women and ducks,
and outside a large green bus swerves through traffic like
insanity sprung from a waving line; Turgenev, Turgenev,
says the radio, and Jane Austin, Jane Austin, too.
"I am going to do her portrait on the 28th, while you are
at work."
He is just this edge of fat and he walks constantly, he
fritters; they have him; they are eating him hollow like 
a webbed fly, and his eyes are red-suckled with anger-fear.
He feels hatred and discard of the world, sharper than
his razor, and his gut-feel hangs like a wet polyp; and he 
self-decisions himself defeated trying to shake his
hung beard from razor in water (like life), not warm enough.
Daumier. Rue Transonian, le 15 Avril, 1843. (lithograph.)
Paris, Bibliotheque Nationale.
"She has a face unlike that of any woman I have ever known."
"What is it? A love affair?"
"Silly. I can't love a woman. Besides, she's pregnant."
I can paint- a flower eaten by a snake; that sunlight is a 
lie; and that markets smell of shoes and naked boys clothed,
and that under everything some river, some beat, some twist that
clambers along the edge of my temple and bites nip-dizzy. . .
men drive cars and paint their houses,
but they are mad; men sit in barber chairs; buy hats.
Corot. Recollection of Mortefontaine.
Paris, Louvre.
"I must write Kaiser, though I think he's a homosexual."
"Are you still reading Freud?"
"Page 299."
She made a little hat and he fastened two snaps under one
arm, reaching up from the bed like a long feeler from the
snail, and she went to church, and he thought now I h've
time and the dog.
About church: the trouble with a mask is it 
never changes.
So rude the flowers that grow and do not grow beautiful.
So magic the chair on the patio that does not hold legs
and belly and arm and neck and mouth that bites into the 
wind like the ned of a tunnel.
He turned in bed and thought: I am searching for some 
segment in the air. It floats about the peoples heads.
When it rains on the trees it sits between the branches
warmer and more blood-real than the dove.
Orozco. Christ Destroying the Cross.
Hanover, Dartmouth College, Baker Library.
He burned away in his sleep.

Share |

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 7982 times | Comments and analysis of His Wife, The Painter by Charles Bukowski Comments (14)

His Wife, The Painter - Comments and Information

Poet: Charles Bukowski
Poem: His Wife, The Painter

Comment 14 of 14, added on August 1st, 2014 at 11:39 AM.
oeDJcykUrBdigzeeJO

ciB3Ce Really enjoyed this article.Really looking forward to read more. Will read on...

crorkz linkz from Hungary
Comment 13 of 14, added on July 18th, 2014 at 12:20 PM.
ndyWKjtXvs

b6RwbZ wow, awesome blog post.Much thanks again. Will read on...

high quality backlinks from Kuwait
Comment 12 of 14, added on July 4th, 2014 at 6:15 AM.
SBDLRJJlXRwUzEgjkf

YmKzvG This is one awesome post.Really thank you! Want more.

awesome seo from Netherlands

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, His Wife, The Painter, has received 14 comments. Click here to read them, and perhaps post a comment of your own.

Poem Info

Bukowski Info
Copyright © 2000-2012 Gunnar Bengtsson. All Rights Reserved. Links | Bookstore