“A. Huxley died at 69/ much too early for such a/ fierce talent.” Now in his seventh decade, Bukowski is preoccupied with death, but in such a way that he spices his usual flat monotone with bits of welcome humor. While continuing his focus on life in bars and at the racetrack, these poems enlarge the meditative tone begun in You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense ( LJ 1/87). Bukowski remembers the first time he read great authors or heard classical composers; he reflects on old friends, co-workers, and lovers, but with a new gentleness, as in “Darkling,” a wonderfully lyric love poem to his wife. Poems such as this make it easier to spot the poetic craft at work behind Bukowski’s understated common speech. Finally, the poet’s emphasis on reflection and mellowed tone will, one hopes, enlarge the poet’s huge but specialized readership.
Librería del balcón 