So a certain someone sends me this poem:

poetry readings ~ Charles Bukowski

poetry readings have to be some of the saddest
damned things ever,
the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,
week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,
sweating for applause
they read basically to and for
each other,
they can’t find a New York publisher
or one
within miles,
but they read on and on
in the poetry holes of America,
never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be
thin, almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered
in
from nowhere.
I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.
if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else:
a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a jock guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant’s fart in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crush,
the mailman telling a dirty joke
anything
anything
but
these.

I read this poem. I read it twice. I read it three, four more times. And I loved it and I hated it. And it pissed me off. How dare he? Yet I wanted to read more of this man’s poetry, I wanted to find information on this poet, read what others have to say about him. I started looking.

Found this and this and even this.

So I was thinking about my day of gear grinding over Mr. Bukowski, when there occurred a small, but indeed ferocious (trust me, it feels most excellent), epiphany of sorts: That this poem was doing exactly what poetry is supposed to do. If I need to explain this to you, well then you will never get it. So I’m not even going to try. But, let me tell you this, Zen Reader: Charles Bukowski is one fucking awesome poet.

The upshot of all of this is that I’ve decided to add PSOetry to my Categories. Because I do, despite being a PhoneSex Goddess, simply dig poetry. I write it, I read it, I love discovering it and rediscovering it. Plus, because there are so many wannabees out there (and for all I know I just might be one of them), poetry has pretty much gotten a bad rap.

Even erotica sites generally do not accept poems for consideration. Which I find pretty damn sad. I am taking a stand: Poetry is Cool. Poetry is Beautiful. Poetry is Awesome. So, once a week or even more, if you don’t mind (or even if you do. it is my blog, after all), I will be presenting a poem.

Maybe I’ll comment on it, maybe I won’t. Let’s see how it all works out. After all, I really am just doing all of this by the seat of my panties. And it seems to be working, at least so far. So let’s leave it that way. In the meantime, blame it on Mr. B.