Here's a Charles Bukowski poem about a very American experience or American situation. I can't see this happening anywhere else, so I guess it relates to Columbus Day.
NIRVANA
not much chance, completely cut loose from purpose, he was a young man riding a bus through North Carolina on the way to somewhere and it began to snow and the bus stopped at a little cafe in the hills and the passengers entered.
he sat at the counter with the others, he ordered and the food arrived. the meal was particularly good and the coffee.
the waitress was unlike the women he had known. she was unaffected, there was a natural humor which came from her.
the fry cook said crazy things, the dishwasher in back laughed, a good clean pleasant laugh.
the young man watched the snow through the windows.
he wanted to stay in that cafe forever.
the curious feeling swam through him that everything was beautiful there, that it would always stay beautiful there.
then the bus driver told the passengers that it was time to board.
the young man thought, I'll just sit here, I'll just stay here.
but then he rose and followed the others into the bus.
he found his seat and looked at the cafe through the bus window. then the bus moved off, down a curve, downward, out of the hills.
the young man looked straight forward. he heard the other passengers speaking of other things, or they were reading, or attempting to sleep. they had not noticed the magic.
the young man put his head on one side, closed his eyes, pretended to sleep. there was nothing else to do --
Just listen to the sound of the engine,
the sound of the tires in the snow.
There's a superb short film that accompanies this poem. You can access it on YouTube.
Although this is my first encounter with the poem, I know the place. Only I was much older than the young man, midlife actually, when the bus stopped for me.
Today, a friend who at 72 is somewhat older than I am and has survived the deaths of two husbands, told me about a poem that mattered to her by Mary Oliver in which white geese turn to gold. I looked it up when I returned home, and then found and appreciated the one by Bukowski here at Levity and thought the two seemed somewhat similar.
Snow Geese by Mary Oliver
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last! What a task to ask of anything, or anyone, yet it is ours, and not by the century or the year, but by the hours. One fall day I heard above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was a flock of snow geese, winging it faster than the ones we usually see, and, being the color of snow, catching the sun so they were, in part at least, golden. I held my breath as we do sometimes to stop time when something wonderful has touched us as with a match, which is lit, and bright, but does not hurt in the common way, but delightfully, as if delight were the most serious thing you ever felt. The geese flew on, I have never seen them again. Maybe I will, someday, somewhere. Maybe I won't. It doesn't matter. What matters is that, when I saw them, I saw them as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.
6 comments:
Painful Indians final.
Hemisphere, actually.
Here's a Charles Bukowski poem about a very American experience or American situation. I can't see this happening anywhere else, so I guess it relates to Columbus Day.
NIRVANA
not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things,
the dishwasher
in back
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
forward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking of other things,
or they were reading,
or attempting to sleep.
they had not noticed
the magic.
the young man
put his head on one side,
closed his eyes,
pretended to sleep.
there was nothing
else to do --
Just listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.
There's a superb short film that accompanies this poem. You can access it on YouTube.
Thank you, ricpic. Our lives are one big 'what if' aren't they?
Here is some good background music I'm listening to now:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=liTSRH4fix4
But of course - we are talkin' about North Carolina here!
Although this is my first encounter with the poem, I know the place. Only I was much older than the young man, midlife actually, when the bus stopped for me.
Today, a friend who at 72 is somewhat older than I am and has survived the deaths of two husbands, told me about a poem that mattered to her by Mary Oliver in which white geese turn to gold. I looked it up when I returned home, and then found and appreciated the one by Bukowski here at Levity and thought the two seemed somewhat similar.
Snow Geese by Mary Oliver
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match,
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.
The geese
flew on,
I have never seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.
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