The thought of someone new, sure is exciting
But lately, I’ve been picking
Sunday dawns over Friday nights
Moonlit wet sand over roller-coaster rides
And I could make small talk
Learn a stranger’s hobbies
But I think I’d rather watch you show me
Your cricket helmet and brand new skinners
“Adrenaline rush is over rated” — take it from a sinner
My bruised knees, my swollen calves
My droopy eyes and my tired face
Need me to sit right next to
You, my resting place.
Stuck, I was, in a conflict
Whether to or not to
To fall, I chose, and so I did
Off a high, isolated cliff
The cold hard ground
I was scared to hit
But a glimpse of river
Made me do it
Now as I drown
With no breaths out
And no breaths in
I wonder how I forgot
I cannot swim.
I enter my room
I close the door, I fall to the floor
And as I fall
I shrink into myself
Like an empty tote bag
I rest my back
Against the foot of my bed
The need – it persists
The need for something to lean on
I sit with my knees wide apart
Kindly excuse me, I’m too upset
To have the courtesy to close my legs
My room is hot, uncomfortably hot
But the marble floor feels cold
Maybe that’s why I’m shivering
And not because of their cold reception
I feel it running up my chest
– A muffled cry – trying to surface
I cover my mouth with both of my hands
My throat, my jaws, they ache
My body spasms as I hold it down
Of what use is a closed door
And a noisy air conditioner
If it can’t cover the sound of my wail?
I cry because I have reasons to cry
Then, I cry because I cry alone
Then, I cry because I want to remain alone
My tears never had the luxury
to soak up an offered tissue paper
Or another man’s T shirt
They’ve always originated in my eyes
And died by the edge of my face
So this poem suffers a similar fate
It ends right here
I sit across the mirror
My blemishes are blurred,
with the rest of my face
My tan lines look smuged,
My receding hairline is just a hairline
The black dots on my nose — gone.
Scars from a childhood injury — gone.
A scraped off cheap nailpaint — gone.
I look like a retouched photograph
Then I put my specs on
and all of a sudden
I’m aware of every single crease
on my winter-struck skin
So, it’s funny you mention
that you don’t like me with my glasses on
I, also, don’t like me with my glasses on.
All flowers shrivel
But don’t their colours smile through
Wings of butterflies?
Bluebird, written by Charles Bukowski, is one of those poems which you can’t make anything of in the first read but as soon as you read the first verse the second time — everything makes sense. The use of uncomplicated language to express some very complicated emotions is just *chef’s kiss* . The perfect amount of cliche(ness?) and portrayal of some very relatable aspects of sadness make it a very readable poem.
The poet has shaped sadness into a “blue” bird (you see why I said it’s cliche?) that lives inside him. The stress on constant subduing of emotions persists all throughout the poem. He goes on to talk about his expertise in hiding his grief, his ways of coping with it — whiskeys and whores — and how he allows himself to vent only when he is isolated
The repetitive use of the statement “I’m too tough for him” is something that I especially enjoyed.