Bukowski on Style


I really like this Bukowski poem on style. It capture the element of doing something and putting everything into what you do.

I especially like the final line that refers to a beautiful woman, walking out of the bathroom naked. I get the impression she is doing so confidently, perhaps because she is unaware that I am watching or that she is showing herself to me knowing that I admire her.

Style is the answer to everything.
Fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous day.
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a
dangerous thing without style.
To do a dangerous thing with style, is what I call art.
Bullfighting can be an art.
Boxing can be an art.
Loving can be an art.
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.
Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men.
Although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance.

When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a
shotgun, that was style.
For sometimes people give you style.
Joan of Arc had style.
John the Baptist.
Jesus.
Socrates.
Caesar.
García Lorca.
I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of
jail.
Style is a difference, a way of doing, a way of being
done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water, or you,
walking
out of the bathroom without seeing me.

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