Nuestros amantes

.

Ik weet niet hoe het jullie vergaat maar als er in een film een verwijzing zit naar een dichter, een gedicht of iets dat met poëzie te maken heeft, dan ben ik altijd meteen wakker (als ik dat al niet was natuurlijk). Vanuit een niet aflatende nieuwsgierigheid naar alles wat met poëzie te maken heeft wil ik dan ook altijd de fijne details weten. Dit gebeurde me ook weer afgelopen zaterdag. Op Netflix waren we de Spaanse film ‘Nuestros Amantes’  uit 2016 of ‘Our lovers’ zoals de Engelse titel luidt,  aan het bekijken toen de twee hoofdpersonen het ineens hadden over hun favoriete schrijvers Charles Bukowski en Truman Capote. De regelmatige lezer van dit blog weet dat Charles Bukowski één van mijn favoriete dichters is uit het Engelse taalgebied.

In de film werd gesproken over een gedicht dat Bukowski geschreven zou hebben over Capote. Dat ben ik dus gaan uitzoeken. Het betreft hier het gedicht ‘Nothing but a scarf’ dat verscheen in ‘Come on in’ en hoewel het lijkt alsof Bukowski de vloer aanveegt met het schrijverschap van Capote blijkt uit de laatste twee zinnen toch een zekere waardering en respect. 

.

Nothing but a Scarf

.

long ago, oh so long ago, when
I was trying to write short stories
and there was one little magazine which printed
decent stuff
and the lady editor there usually sent me
encouraging rejection slips
so I made a point to
read her monthly magazine in the public
library.

I noticed that she began to feature
the same writer
for the lead story each
month and
it pissed me off because I thought that I could
write better than that
fellow.
his work was facile and bright but it had no
edge.
you could tell that he had never had his nose rubbed into
life, he had just
glided over it.

next thing I knew, this ice-skater-of-a-writer was
famous.

he had begun as a copy boy
on one of the big New York
magazines
(how the hell do you get one of those
jobs?)

then he began appearing in some of the best
ladies’ magazines
and in some of the respected literary
journals.

then after a couple of early books
out came a little volume, a sweet
novelette, and he was truly
famous.

it was a tale about high society and
a young girl and it was
delightful and charming and just a bit
naughty.

Hollywood quickly made a movie out of
it.

then the writer bounced around Hollywood
from party to party
for a few years.
I saw his photo again and again:
a little elf-man with huge
eyeglasses.
and he always wore a long dramatic
scarf.

but soon he went back to the New York and to all the
parties there.

he went to every important party thereafter for years
and to
some that weren’t very
important.

then he stopped writing alltogether and just went
to the parties.

he drank and doped himself into oblivion almost
every night.

his once slim frame more than doubled in
size.
his face grew heavy and he no longer looked
like the young boy with the quick and dirty
wit but more like an
old frog.

the scarf was still on display but his hats were
too large and came down almost to his
eyes;
all you noticed was his
twisted
lurid
grin.

the society ladies still liked to drag him
around New York
one on each arm
and
drinking like he did, he didn’t live
to enjoy his old age.

so
he died
and was quickly
forgotten

until somebody found what they claimed was his secret
diary / novel


and then all the famous people in
New York were very
worried

and they should have been worried because when it
was published
out came all dirty
laundry.

but I still maintain that he never really did know how to
write; just what and
when and about
whom.

slim, thin
stuff.

ever so long ago, after reading
one of his short stories,
after dropping the magazine to the floor,
I thought,
Jesus Christ, if this is what they
want,
from now on
I might as well write for
the rats and the spiders
and the air and just for
myself.

which, of course, is exactly what
I did.

.