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    Home»Poems»An Almost Made Up by Charles Bukowski
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    An Almost Made Up by Charles Bukowski

    WAO TeamBy WAO TeamNovember 8, 2024No Comments2 Mins Read
    An Almost Made Up by Charles Bukowski
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    An Almost Made Up is a popular poem by Charles Bukowski, a renowned American poet and novelist. Born in 1920, Bukowski’s writing was influenced by the social, cultural, and economic environment of his adopted home city of Los Angeles. In his poem An Almost Made Up, the speaker says that he is in love with a woman he has never seen nor touched.

    I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
    blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
    they are small, and the fountain is in France
    where you wrote me that last letter and
    I answered and never heard from you again.
    you used to write insane poems about
    ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
    knew famous artists and most of them
    were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
    go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
    because we’ never met. we got close once in
    New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
    touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
    about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
    is that the famous are worried about
    their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
    with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
    in the morning to write upper case poems about
    ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
    us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
    it was the upper case. you were one of the
    best female poets and I told the publishers,
    editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
    magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
    like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
    writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
    loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
    cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
    but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
    your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
    lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
    you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
    the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
    bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
    hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
    heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide

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