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The Man with the Beautiful Eyes (by Charles Bukowski)
The Man With The Beautiful Eyes (tapescript)
When we were kids there was a strange house. All the shades were always drawn and we never heard voices in there, and the yard was full of bamboo, and we liked to play in the bamboo pretending we were Tarzan ( although there was no Jane) And there was a fish pond, a large one full of the fattest goldfish you ever saw and they were tame. They came to the surface of the water and took pieces of bread from our hands.
Our parents had told us: " never go near that house" so, of course, we went. We wondered if anybody lived there. Weeks went by and we never saw anybody. Then one day we heard a voice from the house " YOU GOD DAMNED WHORE!" It was a man’s voice. Then the screen door of the house was flung open and the man walked out. He was holding a fifth of whiskey in his right hand. He was about 30.
He had a cigar in his mouth, needed a shave. His hair was wild and uncombed and he was barefoot, in undershirt and pants, but his eyes were bright, they BLAZED with brightness and he said, "hey, little gentleman, having a good time, I hope?" Then he gave a little laugh and walked back into the house. We left, went back to our parents yard and thought about it.
Our parents, we decided, had wanted us to stay away from here because they never wanted us to see a man like that, a strong natural man with beautiful eyes. Our parents were ashamed that they were not like that man, thats why they wanted us to stay away. But we went back to that house and the bamboo and the tame goldfish. We went back many times, for many weeks, but we never saw or heard the man again. The shades were down as always and it was quiet.
Then one day, as we came back from school, we saw the house. It had burned down, there was nothing left, just a smoldering twisted black foundation, and we went to the fish pond and there was no water in it, and the fat orange goldfish were dead there, drying out.
We went back to my parents yard and talked about it and decided that our parents had burned his house down, had killed him, had killed the goldfish because it was all too beautiful, even the bamboo forest had burned. They had been afraid of the man with the beautiful eyes.
And we were afraid that all throughout our lives things like that would happen, that nobody wanted anybody to be strong and beautiful like that, that others would never allow it, and that many people would have to die.
Our parents had told us: " never go near that house" so, of course, we went. We wondered if anybody lived there. Weeks went by and we never saw anybody. Then one day we heard a voice from the house " YOU GOD DAMNED WHORE!" It was a man’s voice. Then the screen door of the house was flung open and the man walked out. He was holding a fifth of whiskey in his right hand. He was about 30.
He had a cigar in his mouth, needed a shave. His hair was wild and uncombed and he was barefoot, in undershirt and pants, but his eyes were bright, they BLAZED with brightness and he said, "hey, little gentleman, having a good time, I hope?" Then he gave a little laugh and walked back into the house. We left, went back to our parents yard and thought about it.
Our parents, we decided, had wanted us to stay away from here because they never wanted us to see a man like that, a strong natural man with beautiful eyes. Our parents were ashamed that they were not like that man, thats why they wanted us to stay away. But we went back to that house and the bamboo and the tame goldfish. We went back many times, for many weeks, but we never saw or heard the man again. The shades were down as always and it was quiet.
Then one day, as we came back from school, we saw the house. It had burned down, there was nothing left, just a smoldering twisted black foundation, and we went to the fish pond and there was no water in it, and the fat orange goldfish were dead there, drying out.
We went back to my parents yard and talked about it and decided that our parents had burned his house down, had killed him, had killed the goldfish because it was all too beautiful, even the bamboo forest had burned. They had been afraid of the man with the beautiful eyes.
And we were afraid that all throughout our lives things like that would happen, that nobody wanted anybody to be strong and beautiful like that, that others would never allow it, and that many people would have to die.
Did you like the poem? What's your opinion about it? As you have probably noticed, I have rearranged the poem so that it has a prose format. What about if you try to arrange the text in verse form? Even more challenging, do you dare to write your own poem in English and share it with all of us?
Bukowski's Biography
Charles Bukowski was born in Germany in 1920 and came with his family to the United States when he was three years old. He grew up in poverty in Los Angeles, drifted extensively, and for much of his life made his home in San Pedro. Bukowski had been a writer since childhood, published his first story at age twenty four, and began publishing poetry when he was thirty-five.
Bukowski is generally considered to be an honorary "beat writer," although he was never actually associated with Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and the other bona fide beat writers. His style, which exhibits a strong sense of immediacy and a refusal to embrace standard formal structure, has earned him a place in the hearts of beat generation readers. He was a prolific (it isn't known how much he had written; much of it was sent off to publishers long-hand and never seen again), free-formed, humorous, and painfully honest writer. His topics included hang-overs, the shit stains on his underwear, classical music, horse-racing and whores. He was at home with the people of the streets, the skid row bums, the hustlers, the transient life style. His language is the poetry of the streets viewed from the honesty of a hang-over.
Most of Bukowski's work is based on his own experience, wandering from city to city, from job to job, from woman to woman. Bukowski became widely known after the release of the movie Barfly. He wrote the screenplay and was somewhat involved in the production of this film which featured Mickey Rourke in the role of Chinaski/Bukowski.
Although Barfly brought Hank to the masses in a big way, Bukowski is primarily known in literary circles for his poetry. He has stated that he does not consider himself a poet, but simply a writer. "To say I'm a poet puts me in the company of versifiers, neontasters, fools, clods, and skoundrels masquerading as wise men." He has also made clear that he does not like "form" in poetry, referring to it as "a paycheck for learning to turn the same screw that has held things together.
Bukowski is generally considered to be an honorary "beat writer," although he was never actually associated with Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and the other bona fide beat writers. His style, which exhibits a strong sense of immediacy and a refusal to embrace standard formal structure, has earned him a place in the hearts of beat generation readers. He was a prolific (it isn't known how much he had written; much of it was sent off to publishers long-hand and never seen again), free-formed, humorous, and painfully honest writer. His topics included hang-overs, the shit stains on his underwear, classical music, horse-racing and whores. He was at home with the people of the streets, the skid row bums, the hustlers, the transient life style. His language is the poetry of the streets viewed from the honesty of a hang-over.
Most of Bukowski's work is based on his own experience, wandering from city to city, from job to job, from woman to woman. Bukowski became widely known after the release of the movie Barfly. He wrote the screenplay and was somewhat involved in the production of this film which featured Mickey Rourke in the role of Chinaski/Bukowski.
Although Barfly brought Hank to the masses in a big way, Bukowski is primarily known in literary circles for his poetry. He has stated that he does not consider himself a poet, but simply a writer. "To say I'm a poet puts me in the company of versifiers, neontasters, fools, clods, and skoundrels masquerading as wise men." He has also made clear that he does not like "form" in poetry, referring to it as "a paycheck for learning to turn the same screw that has held things together.
viernes, 3 de abril de 2009
Everybody's Rights
Have a look at this presentation. What´'s your opinion about it? Why do you think human rights are so often violated in so many countries?
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