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About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter - Poem by Charles Bukowski

he lives in a house with a swimming pool
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to
get rid of
him. his novels keep coming
back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams
“go to New York and pump the hands of the
publishers?”
“no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a
small room and do the
thing.”
“but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to
go by, some word, some sign!”
“some men did not think that way:
Van Gogh, Wagner—”
“oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him
paints whenever he
needed them!”


“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and
this guy walks in. a salesman. you know
how they talk. drove up in this new
car. talked about his vacation. said he went to
Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who
wrote it. now this guy is 54 years
old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only
opera.’ and then I told
him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he
asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and
you don’t know anything!’”


“what happened
then?”
“I walked out.”
“you mean you left him there with
her?”
“yes.”


“I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a
job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and
they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for
this job, he won’t stay
so there’s really no sense in hiring
him.
now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble:
you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a
job and they look at you and they think:
ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire
him he’ll stay a long time and work
HARD!”


“do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a
writer, that you write poetry?”
“no.”
“you never talk about
it. not even to
me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d
have never known.”
“that’s right.”
“still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a
writer.”
“I’d still like to
tell them.”
“why?”
“well, they talk about you. they think you are just a
horseplayer and a drunk.”
“I am both of those.”
“well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone.
I’m the only friend you
have.”
“yes.”
“they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell
them you write
poetry.”
“leave it alone. I work here like they
do. we’re all the same.”
“well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why
I travel with
you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—”
“forget it.”
“all right, I’ll respect your
wishes. but there’s something else—”
“what?”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a
piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a
violin too but I can’t make up my
mind!”
“buy a piano.”
“you think
so?”
“yes.”


he walks away
thinking about
it.


I was thinking about it
too: I figure he can always come over with his
violin and more
sad music.
Charles Bukowski

Latest Urdu Poetry

Ro parra hoon to koi baat hi aesi ho gi,
Main ke waqif tha tere hijr ke adaab se bhi..

Comrades, if I don't live to see the day
-- I mean,if I die before freedom comes --
take me away

Musafir to bichertay hain rifakat kab badlti hai..
Muhabbat zinda rehti hai Muhabbat kab badlti hai

Phir itne may0os kyun h0 us
ki bewaFayi par Faraz,
Tum khud hi t0h kehte thay k
w0h sab se Juda h

Qudurat ho to sachi baat bhi mani nahi jati
Ke chashme toor tak suraj ki tabaani nahi jati

Ab it

Snow’s been melting too soon—
passing the Río Grande every day, I note
water level is high,

Jo Such Kahun To Bura Lagy Jo Daleel Dun To Zaleel Hun
Ye Samaj Jahl Ki Zad Me Hai Yahan Bat Karna

Perched on the branch of a tree
Was a nightingale sad and lonely

The night has drawn near', He w

Aatish-E-Ishq Se Khailo Ge To Jal Jao Ge

Abhi Moqa Hai Meri Jaan Sambhal Jao Ge

Tum Na Badlo G

charagh taq-e-tilismat mein dikhai diya
phir is ke baad mere hath mein dikhai diya
main KHush hu

MOTLEY I count the only wear
That suits, in this mixed world, the truly wise,
Who boldly smile upo

As I perceive
I am dying now and know
I will not speak again, will not
survive the earth, be summ

Hazaron Mosamon Ki Hukmrani Hai Mere Dil Par

Wasi Mein Jab Bhi Hansta Hun Tu Aankhen Bheg Jati Ha

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.

Through cloud

Shikwa karen to kis se shikayet karen to kya,
Ik raayegaan amal ki reyazat karen to kya,
Jis sheyy

Almari se khat us ke purane nikal aye,
Phir se mere chehre pe yeh daane nikal aye,
Maan beth ke ta

Orange blossoms blowing over Castile
children begging for coins

I met my love under an orange tr

دل جو ٹوٹ گیا تو سوال کرو گے آپ
ہم نہ رہے تو یاد کرو گے آ

Aayina ab judaa nahin karta,
Qaid mei hoon rihaa nahin karta,
Mustaqil sabr mei hai koh-e-giraan,

The Mighty Mother, and her son who brings
The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings,
I sing. Say

Urdu Poetry

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