Milking the Beast Within, By Ben Douglass

 

Milking the Beast Within, Selected Poems By Ben Douglass. Atomic Mountain Press, LLC, Edited by Rowena White. 63 pages, 2021. Cover by Albert Birkle.

Milking the Beast Within contains thirty-seven poems spanning from 1971 to 2012. This is apparently only a small subset of the poems written by Douglass, who is a poet I’ve not previously read. While each poem seems intensely personal, all are also universal in theme, with the author addressing primarily the issues of relationships and love. The poems are free verse and written in everyday language. As a result, they come off as exceedingly honest.

I’m not widely read in poetry and have mostly read speculative poetry, which normally has SF, Fantasy, or horror elements. I did immediately recognize a certain kinship between Douglass’s work and that of Charles Bukowski. The plain language is similar, as are many of the themes. It was no surprise then to find that one poem in the collection is called, “On Reading Bukowski for the First Time.” However, the collection contains a number of poems written before Douglass discovered Bukowski and the same kind of language and content is found there as well. So, it seems less of a direct influence by Bukowski and more of a certain, common viewpoint on life. Still, I believe I found more hopefulness and peacefulness in Douglass’s work than I have previously in Bukowski.

The cover, called “The Acrobat,” was…intriguing. It’s quite an ugly image of a man, almost a caricature, but it does catch the viewer’s attention. I was surprised to find that it had been done in 1921. It certainly seemed contemporary to me on first look.

All in all, this is a very nice package and the poems are insightful and make one think. I enjoyed them and will likely reread them over time, as well as seeking out more of Douglass’s work.  

Love is a Dog From Hell

I just finished Charles Bukowski’s Love is a Dog from Hell, a collection of his poetry written between 1974 and 1977. It’s a long book, 307 pages, but I finished it in about 2 hours with the sun creeping down the windows of the library where I sat.

What can I say? I hated it. But I loved it. Sort of. It’s not even poetry. There’s not a fragment of music in it. Bukowski writes microfictions with lots of line breaks. Some of it was disgusting, some cruel, some the kind of braggadocio that I despise. I had the feeling that at least some of it was written while he was stone-drunk. But I couldn’t look away.

I could say there’s truth in it. But it’s not my truth. It’s not universal truth. But I have the feeling it was Bukowski’s absolute truth. And it was refreshing to see so much honesty on the page, even if it was a drunken honesty stained with feces and vomit.

Bukowski writes poetry much like Hemingway wrote books. His works are simply stated, nothing fancy. I have a feeling that Hemingway could have been a Bukowski of prose if he’d learned to embrace his alcoholism rather than fight it. But Hemingway was always concerned with his reputation, and Bukowski only rarely seemed to give a shit. He just wanted to get laid, maybe because he came to it late.

I will try not to make too complete a judgment about Bukowski based on this one collection. I need to find out more. I certainly can’t say that I liked this first foray into his world. But it hit me harder than any poetry I’ve read, or written, in quite a long time. I know I’ll read more.

I wonder if I’ll hate myself for it.