Charles Bukowski’s “Sifting Through the Madness” (Reviewed by Meghan Callahan)

Silence is my alarm. When the sounds of the day fade off lazily, in the final drip-drip-dripping moments of sunlight, I fall into an uneasy sleep. And with regularity so complete that I could set a watch to it, I will be awoken in a few hours by the silence, the oppressive lack of noise. I am the type of person that cannot fall asleep without being lulled there by words, and I always keep a few books close to my pillow for these midnight attacks of sleeplessness. My book choices are indiscriminant and voracious, and I read books like my eyes are starving for letters until I can fall asleep again. But the books that not only help me sleep but give me good dreams are special. They are defined by the seductive syntax, the vivid verse, the prose or poetry that persists long after I’ve put the book aside. Because of its artistry and ability to captivate me in the long quiet dark of the night, Charles Bukowski’s post-humorous collection of poetry, Sifting Through Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way has become my bedfellow of choice.

Like most poetry lovers, I had heard of Bukowski, but I had never been exposed to the works not published before his death. In this collection by Ecco (a division of HarperCollins Publishers), Bukowski’s never-before-seen poems are released in a tender, often humorous, and respectful manner that befits his talent and his prolific career.

Bukowski has always seemed to be a little bit of an “anti-poet” to me, defying stereotypes and perceptions of the ‘typical’ writer throughout his life. Though he had begun writing during his youth, he only came into a true passion for poetry at around middle-age, after years of living hard and fast and dangerously. Bukowski was emotionally volatile, had no desire to present himself or his work diplomatically, and cared not at all what the rest of the world thought of him. I like to imagine Bukowski taking a sort of sadistic enjoyment in shattering people’s perceptions of what a writer should be. He was anything but the MFA toting, bookish, sensitive poet that was expected by the populace (though he loved both cats and classical music), and his adamancy against succumbing to the literary culture marks him uniquely among others in his field.

Though the poems in this collection are mainly the focused reflections of an older man, Bukowski does not shy away from presenting the wildness of his youth or his love affair with the city of Los Angeles. From years of horse racing to the drunken nights he can no longer remember, Bukowski’s semi-autobiographical poems chronicle his singularly unique life in a tantalizing mixture of truth and half-fiction.

But as a writer, I found this collection most compelling for its numerous poems about the art of writing, creating, and Bukowski’s singular passion for “the Word”. Some of my favorites are stories derived from Bukowski’s own experiences about the journey to becoming a writer (such as“neither Shakespeare nor Mickey Spillane”) or his advice to aspiring writers (“so you want to be a writer”, “regrets of a sort”, and “war some of the time”). He emphasizes the difficulty inherent in the life of an artist, and his encouragement is honest and straight-forward. Because Bukowski doesn’t mince words or cater to his audience, his advice is not only easier to read, but easier to follow. He discusses the “burning itch of hell” that drives him to write, and the necessity of being chosen. If the work of writing has chosen you, “it will do it by/itself and keep on doing it/until you die or it dies in/you”; Bukowski does not believe in forcing poetry, and this simplicity of wielding art is visible through his own works. Ease of writing does not mean ease in recognition or publication, or eliminate those days when “all you wanted was 2½ or 5 cents a/word” or the times when “son of a bitch, you ached so hard to be a writer/of any kind.” Rather, Bukowski seems to say that writing is a personal act, the greatest rebellion, the refusal to have your soul rubbed out, where the greatest purpose is to keep yourself from going under. Poetry is dangerous, it requires courage, and it lives immortally.

Bukowski’s prose is not complex, which makes his work accessible to almost any reader, and he makes an effort to avoid using exotic “vocabulary/as if it was/a shield/for pretenders.” There is no need for him to pretend, because it is his hunger that is incredible, palpable through the pages. Bukowski’s writing, like his life, makes no apologies. His work is loud, passionate, and full of surprises. Whether he is writing about horse racing or whores, art or his aspirations, Bukowski writes loudly. Readers, whether they are experienced in poetry or just opening a volume of poems for the first time, will be drawn in by the suddenness of his syntax and his stubborn refusal to be silenced.

Sifting Through the Madness is essential reading for anyone who has ever wanted to write. It is vital for anyone who believes that they cannot understand poetry, or hate it all. It is a serenade to art and booze and sex and being denied, again and again. It is a reminder that “no one can save you but yourself” and that sometimes, it is enough of an accomplishment to get up and fix the handle on the toilet. The dedication page of this publication states: “the way to create art is to burn and destroy/ordinary concepts and to substitute them/with new truths that run down from the top of the head/and out from the heart.” Bukowski spills his heart on the pages in neat, lower-case letters. Every single one speaks out in volumes. And every time I read his work am able to fall back asleep, and the next morning, I feel uniquely awakened.

Meghan Callahan is an English Writing major at Denison University. More of her work can be found at www.collegeinfogeek.com or her personal blog