The Flash of Lightning Behind The Mountain by Charles Bukowski Review

Who is Bukowski? Bukowski is a crazy alcholic bastard who gets his feels for having sex, drinking, and writing. Or well he was before he died a while back. Charles is my favorite poet of all time. He expresses himself so much and literally throws himself into his writing.

There seems to be two main categories for Bukowski's poetry:

His drunken, women filled, madness of a life.
And his struggle to get through his own life.

I love both of them but I prefer the second. His feelings and emotions in his broken poems are so real. So real that I was brought to tears with his honesty and story.

I have a quote wall. I write on post-it notes and just stick them on my wall. I swear that Bukowski owns at least 75% of that wall. Because honestly Bukowski writes about a lot of what I feel everyday. No, I'm not an alcholic or anything truely like Bukowski, but I feel like him.

I felt marvelous, I felt like I owned a piece of the sun.

Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.

I write poetry as well. To get through a lot of personal problems and because I just love writing beautiful poetry. It seems to me that Bukowski and I have very similar poetry, maybe that is why I like him so much.

If only there were more magic people to help us through this strange life.

They simply don't understand do they, that sometimes solitude is on of the most beautiful things on this earth?

Bukowski is the guy that got me into poetry. Also that it is true, Poetry truly does happen when nothing else can. But you can't just make the words come out, they have to happen. Swish threw our brain and unto the paper like magic.

How brave we are to continue walking through this terrible flame as the sun stuns us, as we go on our way, as we float in our pain, kick our feet, wiggle our toes, while listening to inept melodies that float in the air, as agony eats the soul. Yes, I think we are admirable and brave but we should have quit long ago, don't you think?

So am I recommending this book and author to you? Well it depends. I think that it takes a type of person to like his work, but I sure as hell do.

All of those small inevitable details and sorrows rub and push continually against
the moments,
the days,
the years,
until one almost wishes, almost begs for a larger more meaningful destiny.