Just finished reading The Essential Bukowski, edited by Abel Debritto. Ran across Bukowski’s wonderful and amazing poem “Bluebird” again.
The first time I read the poem, I remember thinking, oh, well this is what Emily Dickinson meant. The poem gave me chills, made me forget what I was doing for a week, and forced me to think about what my metaphorical bluebird was.
I was especially intoxicated by the fourth stanza:
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
Once, about ten years ago, I received a rejection slip once from a prestigious literary journal, in which the editor wrote in cursive over the form letter: “one word lines are not poetry!!”
Someone apparently forgot to tell Bukowski.
Listen to the whole poem and enjoy the intoxication.