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The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses
Unavailable
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses
Unavailable
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses
Ebook213 pages1 hour

The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

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About this ebook

“The Walt Whitman of Los Angeles.”—Joyce Carol Oates, bestselling author

“He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels.”—Leonard Cohen, songwriter

The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses is a book of poems written by Charles Bukowski for Jane, his first love. These poems explore a more emotional side to Charles Bukowski.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateMar 17, 2009
ISBN9780061857294
Unavailable
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses
Author

Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski is one of America’s best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in 1920 in Andernach, Germany, to an American soldier father and a German mother, and brought to the United States at the age of two. He was raised in Los Angeles and lived there for over fifty years. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp. Abel Debritto, a former Fulbright scholar and current Marie Curie fellow, works in the digital humanities. He is the author of Charles Bukowski, King of the Underground, and the editor of the Bukowski collections On Writing, On Cats, and On Love.

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is the best of Bukowski's work...if you ask me, which, of course, you did not. The grit that permeates all of Bukowski's best work is balanced here with the deep emotion of his Jane poems. The book is dedicated to her.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    More than a dozen years have passed since I first opened this collection, which was published the year I was born. After only a few readings, the following poem settled into my brain and never left. I return to it again and again, each time expecting -- and receiving -- a visceral jolt. these thingsthese things that we support most wellhave nothing to do with us, and we do with themout of boredom or fear or moneyor cracked intelligence;our circle and our candle of lightbeing small,so small we cannot bear it,we heave out with Ideaand lose the Center:all wax without the wick,and we see names that once meant wisdom,like signs into ghost towns,and only the graves are real.