Nikki Giovanni and Charles Bukowski: New collections from poetry's icons

'Acolytes' and 'The People Look Like Flowers at Last' are their latest efforts at shaping the literary landscape.

from the April 17, 2007 edition

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Bukowski's new collection The People Look Like Flowers at Last is much harder to wade through. Part of the problem is that the poems in this book, the fifth of his post­humous collections, are vintage Bukowski. In fact, he chose these poems for publication because he felt they were some of his strongest. And they are, if you can stand the portrait they present.

The Bukowski in these pages drinks heavily, has one sexual relationship after another, gambles, and rarely says anything positive or pleasant. The world, as he sees it, is gritty, harsh, and often crude. His perspective often feels like a mist that the reader just can't escape.

There are reasons for his dark viewpoint, of course. He was born in Germany in 1920, the only child of a German mother and an American GI, and grew up in Los Angeles, where he briefly attended college before trying to launch a career as a writer.

When he failed to get his early efforts published, he began 10 years of heavy drinking. His dossier of odd jobs includes stints as a dishwasher, truck driver, mail carrier, post office clerk, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, and a cake and cookie factory.

All of these experiences shaped his writing, and in 1959 he published his first book of poems. The themes that emerged over the years – downtrodden workers and the depravity of the urban environment – struck a chord with readers. Bukowski became known as a voice of the common man, a kindred spirit of the Beats, and he influenced other art forms, including film.

Yet where Giovanni offers readers a kaleidoscope of experiences, Bukowski, who died in 1994, offers different shades of gray. The lighter shades tend to come toward the end of the collection or when he writes about something delightfully bizarre that captures his attention – like two riderless horses running the wrong way during a race; a momentary kindness he offered someone; or a person he loves, as in these lines from "poem for my daughter":

she is a waving flower in the wind and the dead center of
my heart – now she sleeps beautifully like a
boat on the Nile.

For those who need more than a portrait of depravity or one man's personal darkness, "The People Look Like Flowers at Last," won't offer much more than a consistent tone and approach. Bukowski's persona, rather than a significant transformation, is what he offers here.

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