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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

Abhi to karna parre ga safar dobara mujhe,
Abhi kare nahin araam ka ishaara mujhe,
Lahuu me aayega

Main Fard Hoon Aam Sa,
Ik Qissa_e_
Natamaam Sa
Na Lehja Bay Misaal Hai,
Na Baat Mein Kamaal

Mujhe shauq tha ke miloon tujhe,
Mujhe khauf bhi tha kahoonga kya,
Tere saamne se nikal geya,
Bar

ZarA Kahmosh tuM Betho k Dam aAraaM sE Nikle.!

Idhar HuM Hichki Lety hain.!
Udhar tuM RonNe La

Teri khushbuu nahin milti, tera lehja nahin milta,
Humen to sheher main koi tere jaisa nahin milta,

Wohi aahatain dar-o-baam par wohi rut jagon k azab hain
Wohi adh bujhi meri neend hai wohi adh jal

Bharrkaa rahe hain aag lab-e-naghmagar se hum,
Khamosh kya rahen ge zamaane ke ddar se hum,
Kuch a

Halaat ke likhe ko mittaa kyun nahin dete,
Yeh bojh hai seeney per hattaa nahin dete,
Kyun hum se

Tu mile to koi marz nahi
Aur na mile to koi dawa nahi

This is my first memory:
A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky
wood floor
A li

AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden pri

Pura Dukh Aur Aadha Chand
Hijr Ki Shab Aur Aesa Chand
Din Main Wehshat Behl Gae Thi
Raat Hoe A

Aye dost! Na chairr batain aaj hijr-o-visaal ki,
Main kese sunaa paaon ga daastan apne zawaal ki,

chup-chap nikal aae the sahra ki taraf hum
chalte hue kya dekhte duniya ki taraf hum
pamal kiye

Apni KHAMOSH zindagi main bolana mujhko,
Apni HASEEN khuwab ki TASVEER banana mujhko,

Main jo PO

Phir Charagh-E-Lala Se Roshan Huway Koh-O-Daman

Mujh Ko Phir Naghmon Pe Uksane Laga Murg-E-Chaman

Ab jo ruthey to kbhi manana nhi ja kr
Seh laingey dukh usey sunana nhi ja kr

Laut aayga zaroor a

Kabhi Laut Aye To Puchna

Nahin Dekhna Unhe Ghor Se

Jinhe Raasty Me Khabar Hui

K Ye Raasta K

Jheel kinaarey kankar phainkoon
yaar ki yaadain gin kar phainkoon

Gul paashi kab raas aayee hai

ہم رشک کو اپنے بھی گوارہ نہیں کرتے
مرتے ھیں ولے ان کی تم

Urdu Poetry

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