Sifting through the madness for the word, the line, the way New poems

Review by Booklist Review

Mother o' mercy, is this the end of Buk, nearly nine years after his death? Well, no, for his new publisher^-Black Sparrow Press proprietor John Martin having retired and closed that long-lived, successful, and important small literary house^-promises four best-of collections, their contents handpicked by Buk himself. But yes, apparently, it is the end in terms of all-new collections. And a fine valedictory this is, one of the most purely enjoyable entries in the Bukowski canon. The poems in it are all as autobiographical as their not-Bukowski "I" referent, Buk's perpetual stand-in--drinkin', screwin', horse-playin', typin' Henry Chinaski--allows. As usual, they are chock-full of gripes, curses, petty rebellions, cocked snooks, long-suffering mutterings, Pyrrhic victories, and the other expressions of malcontent that were Buk's stock-in-trade for some 40 years. Perhaps he was a rhetorician, a ranter, more than a real poet, but for sure he was a humorist, one of the greatest in American literature, in prose as well as verse. If you aren't amused by him, what good are you? ^-Ray Olson

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

When HarperCollins and Ecco Press acquired part of the Black Sparrow imprint early this year, one big prize was the sprawling, long-popular oeuvre of Charles Bukowski (Barfly; Ham on Rye; Love Is a Dog from Hell). Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way: New Poems, Bukowski's 10th posthumous volume (with several more planned), collects yet more verse about the troubled, garrulous poet's traveling, gambling, thinking, aging, working, not working, romancing, drinking, self-mythologizing and even eating ("I opened a can of roastbeef hash/ and some pickled beets") as he fought through his blue-collar, beer-hall L.A. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Yet another collection of unpublished poems by the prolific Bukowski (who died in 1994), this is the first volume to appear since the demise of his longtime publisher, Black Sparrow Press. Yet it feels more like a transitional collection than a posthumous one. Readers are introduced to a gentler, mellower "Hank" (his longtime narrator), who admits that "you can't know how good it feels driving in for a wash-/ and wax with nothing to do but light a cigarette and/ wait in the sun with no overdue rent, no troubles to speak of." His bar stool has been replaced by a Jacuzzi, and he mingles with the rich and famous, sitting in the clubhouse at the racetrack. Of course, as he admits in another poem, "old habits often die/ as slowly/ as do/ old men." So we still find the whores, the drunks, and the memories of nights on bar stools and in cheap hotel rooms. This volume is essential for Bukowski fans and an excellent introduction for new readers.-Rochelle Ratner, formerly with "Soho Weekly News," New York (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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sifting through the madness for the Word, the line, the way new poems so you want to be a writer? if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. if you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. if it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. if you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don't add to that. don't do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was. sifting through the madness for the Word, the line, the way new poems . Copyright © by Charles Bukowski. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way: New Poems by Charles Bukowski All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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