'O, We Are The Outcasts' by Charles Bukowski
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ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .
if it doesn't come, coax it out with a
laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,
get it up there in
8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.
keep it coming like a miracle.
ah christ, writers are the most sickening
of all the louts!
yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,
gutless, flea-bitten and
obvious . . . in tinker-toy rooms
with their flabby hearts
they tell us
what's wrong with the world-
as if we didn't know that a cop's club
can crack the head
and that war is a dirtier game than
marriage . . .
or down in a basement bar
hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him
and children he doesn't
want
he tells us that his heart is drowning in
vomit. hell, all our hearts are drowning in vomit,
in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy
love.
but he thinks he's alone and
he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud
and he thinks he's
Pound.
and death! how about death? did you know
that we all have to die? even Keats died, even
Milton!
and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks
all that free pussy-
they . . . FORCED IT ON HIM
when they should have left him alone so he could
write write WRITE!
poets.
and there's another
type. I've met them at their country
places (don't ask me what I was doing there because
I don't know).
they were born with money and
they don't have to dirty their hands in
slaughterhouses or washing
dishes in grease joints or
driving cabs or pimping or selling pot.
this gives them time to understand
Life.
they walk in with their cocktail glass
held about heart high
and when they drink they just
sip.
you are drinking green beer which you
brought with you
because you have found out through the years
that rich bastards are tight-
they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail
they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready
upon your arrival
from gallons of whisky to
50 cent cigars. but it's never
there.
and they HIDE their women from you-
their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,
because they've read your poems and
figure all you want to do is fuck everybody and
everything. which once might have been
true but is no longer quite
true.
and-
he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of
course. everybody
writes
poetry.
he has plenty of time and a
postoffice box in town
and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day
looking and hoping for accepted
poems.
he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the
soul.
he thinks your mind is ill because you are
drunk all the time and have to work in a
factory 10 or 12 hours a
night.
he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a
poorer rich
man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds
then hustles her
out. she has been crying for some
reason.
you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the
guesthouse he says,
"come on over to dinner
sometime."
but he doesn't say when or
where. and then you find out that you are not even
IN HIS HOUSE.
you are in
ONE of his houses but
his house is somewhere
else-
you don't know
where.
he even has x-wives in some of his
houses.
his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from
you. he doesn't want to give up a
damn thing. and you can't blame him:
his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,
talented, well-dressed, schooled, with
varying French-German accents.
and!: they
WRITE POETRY TOO. or
PAINT. or
fuck.
but his big problem is to get down to that mail
box in town to get back his
rejected poems
and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes
in all his other
houses.
meanwhile, the starving Indians
sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert
town.
the Indians are not allowed in his houses
not so much because they are a fuck-threat
but because they are
dirty and
ignorant. dirty? I look down at my shirt
with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and
forget about
it.
he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at
the
train station.
of course, they weren't
there. "We'll be there to meet the great
Poet!"
well, I looked around and didn't see any
great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and
40 degrees. those things
happen. the trouble was there were no
bars open. nothing open. not even a
jail.
he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that
way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or
not-I don't have the
money.
he walks out with his cocktail glass
disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
then suddenly comes walking back in
unannounced
with the same cocktail glass
to make sure I haven't gotten hold of
something more precious than
Life itself.
my cheap green beer is killing
me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
gives me a little pill that stops my
gagging.
but nothing decent to
drink.
he'd bought a small 6 pack
for my arrival but that was gone in an
hour and 15
minutes.
"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had
said.
I used his phone (one of his phones)
to get deliveries of beer and
cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,
downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
course.
the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have
had beerstains on his
shirt.
anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
x-wives I was too drunk to
make it.
scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
through the window-
he didn't want to give up a damn thing-
and
leveling the luger while I was
working
while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over
the Muzak
and shooting me in the ass first and
my poor brain
later.
"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,
"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."
I see him published in some of the magazines
now. not very good stuff.
a poem about me
too: the Polack.
the Polack whines too much. the Polack whines about his
country, other countries, all countries, the Polack
works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
fools with "pre-drained spirits."
the Polack drinks seas of green beer
full of acid. the Polack has an ulcerated
hemorrhoid. the Polack picks on fags
"fragile fags." the Polack hates his
wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
an alcoholic, a prostitute. the Polack has an
"obese burned out wife." the Polack has a
spastic gut. the Polack has a
"rectal brain."
thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
this? I know I still owe you for the
pill.
Your poem is not too good
but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a
wet and deflated
beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this
Summer? I might scrape up
trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet
you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest
pecker in the state of California.
and guess what?
he writes
POETRY
too!
Editor 1 Interpretation
O, We Are The Outcasts: A Deep Dive into Charles Bukowski's Poem
When it comes to poetry that explores the darker, grittier aspects of life, few names come to mind as quickly as Charles Bukowski. And when it comes to poems that embody Bukowski's trademark mix of cynicism, humor, and raw emotion, one of the first works that comes to mind is "O, We Are The Outcasts." This poem, like much of Bukowski's work, is deceptively simple at first glance, but a closer look reveals a complex and nuanced exploration of the human experience. In this literary criticism and interpretation of the poem, we'll dive deep into its themes, style, and imagery, exploring what makes it such a powerful piece of writing.
Background and Context
First, a bit of context. "O, We Are The Outcasts" was first published in Bukowski's 1972 collection "Mockingbird Wish Me Luck," which was one of his earliest major works. Bukowski was already in his 50s by this point, but he had only published a handful of books of poetry and fiction in small presses. It wasn't until the 1970s that he began to gain wider recognition, thanks in part to the success of "Mockingbird Wish Me Luck" and other works like "Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions, and General Tales of Ordinary Madness."
Bukowski's writing was often autobiographical, drawing heavily on his own experiences growing up poor in Los Angeles and working a series of menial jobs before becoming a full-time writer. His work often dealt with themes of alienation, loneliness, and the struggles of ordinary people trying to find meaning and connection in a harsh and uncaring world. "O, We Are The Outcasts" is no exception.
Themes and Analysis
At its core, "O, We Are The Outcasts" is a poem about alienation and the search for belonging. The speaker of the poem, presumably Bukowski himself, addresses a group of people who are similarly marginalized and excluded from mainstream society. He speaks of how they are "cursed" and "exiled" from the rest of the world, how they "suffer in silence" and "drown in drink." But despite this bleak outlook, the poem also expresses a sense of solidarity and defiance. The speaker declares that "we are the ones who will survive," that they will "find a way to stand."
One of the most striking things about the poem is its use of imagery. Bukowski draws on a wide range of metaphors and symbols to convey the sense of isolation and struggle that the outcasts face. For example, he compares them to "dogs" who are "beaten, thrown into alleys, / then return to bite and growl," suggesting both their vulnerability and their capacity for resistance. He describes them as "rags," "broken bottles," and "mud," evoking a sense of dirt and decay that is often associated with poverty and marginalization. Yet even in the midst of this bleakness, there are moments of beauty and transcendence. The speaker describes how the outcasts "still see the sun and moon," how they "still hear music" and "still dream dreams." These moments of hope and resilience are what make the poem so powerful.
Another key aspect of the poem is its use of language and form. Bukowski's writing is known for its straightforward, unadorned style, and "O, We Are The Outcasts" is no exception. The poem is written in free verse, with no strict meter or rhyme scheme. This gives the poem a sense of spontaneity and immediacy, as if the speaker is talking directly to the reader. The language is simple and direct, with few flourishes or decorations. Yet at the same time, the poem is full of powerful images and metaphors that linger in the mind long after the reading is over.
Relevance Today
So why does "O, We Are The Outcasts" still resonate with readers today, nearly 50 years after it was first published? In many ways, the themes and concerns of the poem are just as relevant today as they were in the 1970s. As income inequality continues to rise and social and political divisions deepen, many people feel alienated and excluded from mainstream society. The COVID-19 pandemic has only heightened these feelings of isolation and disconnection. Thus, the poem's message of solidarity and resilience is perhaps more important than ever. It reminds us that even in the darkest of times, there is still hope and beauty to be found in the world.
Conclusion
In conclusion, "O, We Are The Outcasts" is a powerful and thought-provoking piece of poetry that speaks to the human experience in all its complexity. Through its use of imagery, language, and form, the poem explores the themes of alienation and resilience in a way that is both bleak and hopeful. While it may not offer easy answers or solutions to the problems it addresses, it reminds us that we are not alone in our struggles, and that even in the midst of darkness, there is still beauty and light to be found.
Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation
O, We Are The Outcasts: A Poem of Rebellion and Resilience
Charles Bukowski, the iconic American poet and novelist, was known for his raw, unapologetic style that captured the grit and grime of everyday life. In his poem "O, We Are The Outcasts," Bukowski channels his rebellious spirit and celebrates the resilience of those who refuse to conform to society's norms. Through vivid imagery and powerful language, Bukowski invites us to embrace our inner outcast and find strength in our differences.
The poem opens with a bold declaration: "O, we are the outcasts!" Bukowski immediately establishes a sense of solidarity with those who have been cast aside by society. He uses the first-person plural pronoun "we" to create a sense of community and shared experience. By identifying himself as an outcast, Bukowski invites us to join him in his rebellion against the status quo.
The second stanza sets the tone for the rest of the poem, as Bukowski declares that "we have been called freaks and weirdos, misfits and losers." These labels are often used to marginalize and stigmatize those who don't fit into society's narrow definition of "normal." But Bukowski refuses to let these labels define him or his fellow outcasts. Instead, he embraces them as badges of honor, symbols of his refusal to conform.
In the third stanza, Bukowski uses vivid imagery to describe the outcasts' experience: "we have walked the streets at night, alone and unafraid, under the neon lights and the stars." This image of the outcast as a lone figure wandering through the city at night is a powerful one. It suggests a sense of freedom and independence, as well as a willingness to embrace the darkness and uncertainty of life. Bukowski's use of the word "unafraid" is particularly striking, as it suggests that the outcasts are not afraid of the dangers that lurk in the shadows. Instead, they embrace them as part of the experience.
In the fourth stanza, Bukowski shifts his focus to the outcasts' inner strength and resilience: "we have been beaten down and broken, but we have always risen again, stronger and more determined than before." This image of the outcast as a survivor is a powerful one. It suggests that despite the hardships they have faced, they have not been defeated. Instead, they have emerged from their struggles with a renewed sense of purpose and determination.
The fifth stanza is perhaps the most powerful in the poem, as Bukowski declares that "we are the ones who have seen the world for what it truly is, and we have refused to accept it." This line encapsulates the outcasts' rebellion against the status quo. They have seen through the illusions and lies that society perpetuates, and they refuse to be complicit in them. Instead, they choose to live life on their own terms, even if it means being ostracized and marginalized.
In the final stanza, Bukowski offers a message of hope and solidarity to his fellow outcasts: "so let us stand together, shoulder to shoulder, and raise our voices in defiance of the world that has rejected us." This image of the outcasts standing together, united in their rebellion, is a powerful one. It suggests that despite their differences, they share a common bond and a common cause. By raising their voices in defiance, they are asserting their right to exist on their own terms, and refusing to be silenced or marginalized.
In conclusion, "O, We Are The Outcasts" is a powerful poem that celebrates the resilience and rebellion of those who refuse to conform to society's norms. Through vivid imagery and powerful language, Bukowski invites us to embrace our inner outcast and find strength in our differences. By standing together and raising our voices in defiance, we can assert our right to exist on our own terms, and refuse to be silenced or marginalized. As Bukowski reminds us, "we are the ones who have seen the world for what it truly is, and we have refused to accept it." Let us embrace our inner outcast, and join the rebellion.
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