Sprebas

Bluebird By Charles Bukowski

 

There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him,

 

I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you.

 

There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke

 

and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that

he's in there.

 

There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out

 

but I'm too tough for him,

 

I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales in Europe?

 

There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out

 

but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep.

 

I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad.

 

Then I put him back,

 

but he's singing a little in there,

 

I haven't quite let him die

 

and we sleep together like that with our secret pact

 

and it's nice enough to make a man weep,

 

but I don't weep,

 

do you?

 

Analyse

While reading the poem Bluebird, one encounters the structure, or rather the lack of, that is typical for Bukowskis poetry and indeed some of his novels. The flow is easy, relaxed and close to what most people would count as a short story rather than poetry. In reality, what holds them apart is a matter for discourse. However, it being vague and to some extent metaphorical makes is closer to a poem rather than anything else.

 

Bukowski himself seemed like the sort of man who believed in being honest and real with his writing and thus form, in poems and other texts, was lacking, because to him this was redundant to the idea and/or the feeling being expressed. This idea of form reveals itself in another small poem, merely two lines in length, in which he writes, "As the spirit wanes, the form appears.", explaining his view on form. Any type of writer who is in lack on inspiration or anything that made him or her decide on writing poetry, lack in spirit, as Bukowski called it, might try to conceal this by focusing on form. Writing on verse, using rhymes and counting lines to make the words fit together. This was, according to Bukowski, not honest.

 

The poem Bluebird contains, basically, one word that is open to discussion and is in need of explanation. That would be the bluebird, the main idea the poem revolves around. Already in the first line one get the notion of Bukowski using the bluebird as a feeling. The bluebird, he writes, is inside his heart, the very metaphorical center for emotion, and the color blue is often used as an emotion, to feel blue is to be depressed .

 

In the poem he explains how he fights to keep the bluebird out of sight by various means, alcohol and cigarettes, and it seems he does not want anyone to know there is something inside him, yearning to come out.  This would, he writes, destroy his writing in some way. Perhaps he considered himself a person using black humor in his books and poems, leaving little room for other emotions. In the poem he talks about his book sales in Europe, so this was written in that time of his life when he had become a well published writer, having made an icon of himself. Being a heavy drinker and a bad boy writer of sorts, one might guess he had to maintain this image of himself, this myth around his name, not being emotional. Thus he has to contain some emotions deep inside himself. Only letting them out when he is alone, as he writes in the poem.

 

In the poems last lines he describes his relationship with the bluebird to be "nice enough to make a man weep", and then, with the poems last two words, direct a question to the reader, "do you?". This is a powerful tool, making the reader a part of the poem, asking the reader if there might be any similarities between Bukowskis emotions and the readers.

Wrote this between midnight up untill the early morning. While reading it sort of shows in the text.

 

It was a phone call from Richard that woke me up that morning. His hollow voice speaking with a pace of someone who needs to remind himself he has to use his mouth all the while formulating words in his mind. Being fast awake I'm having a hard time figuring out why someone is asking me where I am. The meeting had been moved up one hour and I was already ten minutes late. Ze Boss wanted to get it over and done fast so he could return playing golf or fishing or whatever.

 

I tell him it´s my day off. But instead of apologizing for the early wake up call, he tells me they had a change in the schedule yesterday. I´m supposed to have the morning shift. Wasn´t I at my office? I begun 45 minutes ago. Didn´t I get the memo?

 

"Sure, whatever." And I hung up. A long shower and two cups of coffee later I´m sitting in my cubicle mustering energy to log in and hit the green light, opening a channel to the outside world of angry costumers and bracing myself for the onslaught of yelling, begging, threatening and cursing that is my day at the office. My job is to act as the first line of defense against any complaint our customers might have.  Doing support over the phone is not all bad if one would remove all the calls I get. Besides that it´s all about drinking sour coffee and dodging Ze Boss when he´s lumbering around the corridors looking for someone (read; me) to wipe his shoes on.

 

Down the hall the meeting is being wrapped up. I can see them through the windowed wall standing up and chanting the motivational speech du jour. Richard, the big cow-person with his back towards me, holds his hands in the air like some jesus-freak singing kumbaya. Ze Boss is all about motivation. Always sending us e-mails telling us how important we are, being a big cog in this machine that is the company. Telling us to take pride on our work. Helping people is always important, he keeps repeating anytime he gets a chance the same way any nazi officer might yell "Arbeit macht frei" all the while dragging Jews into some vault-like chamber with heavy locks in the iron doors giving them breathing instructions. Taking pride in a good days work. Eating supper with the family, praising his wife's cooking and teaching his son right from wrong.

 

Any speck of motivation I still have coming to work is the money and a vague hope that Angelika might wear her black dress again, revealing more skin than a day at nudity camp, leaving little room for fantasies but enough to keep me occupied lonely nights. Angelika with her ass still in the right place, the narrow line working its way up between the shoulders and tits like vanilla muffins begging to get the frosting all licked up. Oh yes, that´s my motivation all right.

 

Richard hanging over the thin wall of my cubicle like a drunk slob, trying to communicate.

 

"Where were you today? Don´t worry about Dave, I covered for you."

 

No day is a good day to handle this big man and talking to him is as appealing as a bad case of syphilis.

 

"At home, man. Sleeping."

 

Richard, twitching, eyeballing the room like a fugitive on the run from Stasi, sweat pouring from that red basketball head of his. Ze Boss still inside the meeting room and Richard draws closer to me, crawling inside my cubicle, a close fit for anything his size. Down on his knees in the proposal position, he tells me, " You can´t keep this up. One day they´ll fire you."

 

The idea of being fired is a breath of fresh air but I could see how the word scared Richard. I could see him a home, spending his spare time mixing oil and gasoline in bottles before he pushes down pieces of cloth in the bottleneck, in preparation of the day he might get fired. After which he snaps and goes completely psychotic and burns down some neighborhood before anyone knows what happened. The police finding him on some field with a gun pressed against his chin ready to blow both his brain cells into the sunlight. One might say he´s not all there.

 

He moves closer, all confidential, and says, "I´ve got something to tell you."

 

"Not now man. I spent last night with Jack Daniels and I'm in no mood for nothing."

 

Richard, all confused, "Is that the guy who works at copying down on floor nine?"

 

Grinding my teeth, I fight the impulse to throw the fax machine in his face.

 

Sure.

 

Whatever.

 

He manages to drag me away to the coffee machine down the corridor all the while he keeps talking about what he wants to tell me. This big secret he´s having, whatever it might be, must be something any normal sane person would consider a big pile of failure. Me pushing the button on the machine.

 

Sugar.

 

Sugar.

 

Sugar.

 

And cream.

 

Another thing with Richard is his total lack of ability to get straight to the point, and now he´s going on about this girl he´s been seeing for a while and bla bla bla. After a while, arriving at something like, "And... uhm... well." Richard moves closer. "Yesterday she told me she´s pregnant."

 

A mistake in the making.

 

"Great man. Congratulations."

 

"I don´t know. What should I do now? Should I marry her?"

 

"Do you love her?"

 

"I dunno. I might."

 

"Well, figure it out and make a decision."

 

Richard nods, looking all down like a child being told it has done something wrong.

 

"Anyway man. I have to get back to work."

 

"Wait wait. If I do marry her and raise the kid... what then?"

 

"Then what?"

 

"I dunno. Anyway... you know any good names? For the kid."

 

Standard procedure, having engaged in a conversation with Richard was a commitment not easily broken. Him never wanting to let you go and cling on like a bad case of hemorrhoids. Knowing this will be one of those days I take out my pills, pop the cap open and flush it down with some of that thick black ooze disguised as coffee.

 

"What's that?"

 

"Vitamins."

 

"Vitamins huh?" he says all suspicious.

 

"Vitamins."

 

In the corner of my eye I see Ze Boss make his way down the hall. Richard also noticed this and start walking on the spot, his moth tapping like a fish on dry land. Making my way towards the cubicle, dodging Ze Boss all engaged in a phone conversation. Richard following me like a stray dog looking for a meal. Staring at the screen, I hear Richard whisper, "So, any names you know? Would be great to come home telling her a few good ones."

 

"Try Snafu. It´s unisex, works both ways."

 

"Snafu", he says tasting the word. His face going limp and dumb as his mind is working on a response. "I´ll tell her. Thanks man."

 

"That´s why I´m here."

 

Richard, the big cow, was okay. Great company for anyone looking for a fast way to improve their own self-esteem.

 

Working my way through the day. Getting yelled at by some costumers being angry because their stuff is broken.

 

"My hairdryer doesn´t work."

 

So?

 

"My washing machine don´t clean my clothes."

 

So?

 

"The remote to my new television didn´t contain any batteries on the purchase. What batteries should I buy?"

 

And so on, until. The beep in my headset signals a new call has been connected and I do my less than cheerful greeting routine , "Welcome to bla bla support, how may I help you today?"

 

Silence and a breathing. Vague at first but then louder and faster. I know this drill and pull out my notebook from the drawer and draw a new line across the other four all the while I try to make contact.

 

"Sir? Ma'am?"

 

Heavier breathing and an occasional moan. I pretend I´m not enjoying myself.

 

"How may I help you today?"

 

"Oh... ah... mmh..."

 

"Uhm... you in any danger ma´am?"

 

Please let her be in some danger.

 

This is working out great, until this. A terrible roar like a beast from hell across the maze of chest high fake walls.

 

"Stanislaw!"

 

I to get up and gaze across the room, noticing Ze Boss scoping me from the other side. I get back down, fast, and hope that somehow he didn´t see me.

 

"Stanislaw!", he yells as he´s making his way over to my cubicle. His head appearing on the other side of the wall, gazing down on me. The woman in my ear moaning and calling me Derek.

 

"You weren´t at the meeting this morning.", he clarifies.

 

"Sure I was."

 

Checking through his papers, flipping them, searching for the attendance list.

 

"Oh... mmhh... louder Derek."

 

Is that a humming in the distance? Please let there be a humming.

 

Ze Boss, now with a hellfire rage, throwing his list on my desk, asking me if my name is anywhere on the list. I pretend to search. I take my time.

 

"Stanislaw!"

 

"Oohhh... Derek."

 

Right now I wish I was Derek.

 

Ze Boss is collecting his thoughts all the while I could see him trying to not to do anything rash.

 

"David", I try, "was there a meeting today?"

 

Ze Boss does his scolding thing. Uses words like "team" and "cooperation" and "motivation" a lot. In my ear some woman is screaming at me.

 

"Louder! Faster... oooohhhh. Derek! Derek. My god!"

 

I cross my legs and try to look somewhat interested in what Ze Boss is trying to say. Nod my head at the right moment. My dick pulsating against my thigh.

 

"I´ll write this one up, Stanislaw.", he finally says and wobbles of with his golf bag swung on his back.

 

The line is dead. No moaning. No breathing. No humming. No Derek.

 

I check the corridor and then rush of towards the toilets, my erection pointing the way.