This seasonal piece, which on the surface seems so mainly because of its title, speaks to various questions I’ve found myself discussing and pondering of late. Not just form versus free verse, commas and line endings, but the state of the world, and art’s place in it.
Bukowski says here that poetry is getting better, one of the few times I’ve seen him subscribe to that view. What do you think? Does he make his case? And what about politics and the human condition? Are we getting any better?
This poem is new to me, but I confess it might just be my new favorite Bukowski. There is much more going on here than the casual chat he pretends to be having.