Time in a Beerbottle

In my several careers so far, I've worked with hundreds of people, nearly all of whom have contributed to the person I am.

Of course, in each workplace, some individuals have had much larger impacts than others.

Today, the birthday of American poet Charles Bukowski, has me thinking of one of these individuals.

S.L. Sanger was a reporter for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer newspaper. It was he who introduced me to Bukowski's work, and possibly instilled in me the restlessness I've struggled with in my work over these past 23 years.

I met Sanger (that's what everybody called him, including ex-wives, girlfriends, and co-workers) in the summer of 1987 on my first day as an intern reporter at the vaunted (and lamented, at least by me) P-I.

Under the auspices of the Joint Operating Agreement with the rival Seattle Times, the newspaper had just moved from its gritty offices to the posh (and very corporate) building on Elliott Avenue, near the waterfront and adjacent to Myrtle Edwards Park.

This newsroom was a strange mix of "newspapermen" (NOT gender-specific -- think characters from the "Lou Grant" series) and "journalists" (more polished, fancy-pants types).

I can still see/hear many of the former in my mind's eye - Sanger, of course; Dan Coughlin; Jon Hahn; Jean Godden; Grant Haller, Phil Webber, and many others whose names I've forgotten but who have merged into a composite of crusty, cussing, cynical, and colorful newsroom types.

One day early in my 12-week internship, I found myself using the telephone at Sanger's desk.

On the desk was a photocopy of the Bukowski poem below.

I remember asking Sanger about it. While I don't recall his response, I do recall spending several evenings at the Blue Moon Tavern, talking about life and work -- his history and future plans, my future plans.

Sanger left the P.I. after I had moved on, and I last heard from him when he was in the Midwest working on a book. I still have a letter I received from him while he was back there, in the dwindling collection of mementos I keep as life continues its course.

Next to his letter is a copy of HIS photocopy of the Bukowski poem below.

I can't say precisely what about this poem appeals to me so strongly, but I think its the mingling of misery and hopefulness all at once, in simple and vivid terms.

Read it aloud.

beerbottle
By Charles Bukowski

a very miraculous thing just happened:
my beerbottle flipped over backwards
and landed on its bottom on the floor,
and I have set it upon the table to foam down,
but the photos were not so lucky today
and there is a small slit along the leather
of my left shoe, but it's all very simple:
we cannot acquire too much: there are laws
we know nothing of, all manner of nudges
set us to burning or freezing; what sets
the blackbird in the cat's mouth
is not for us to say, or why some men
are jailed like pet squirrels
while others nuzzle in enormous breasts
through endless nights - this is the
task and the terror, and we are not
taught why. still, it's lucky the bottle
landed straightside up, and although
I have one of wine and one of whiskey,
this foretells, somehow, a good night,
and perhaps tomorrow my nose will be longer:
new shoes, less rain, more poems.