Bukowski’s Winter

Antonio Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons played on the radio. The concerto was at the high string accent of the Winter movement. Years earlier, poring over allergy-inducing dusty books in the downtown branch of the L.A. Public Library, escaping from his soul-numbing job at the post office, Bukowski had memorized the sonnet that was written to go along with the concerto, four sonnets in all rumored to be written by the Baroque composer himself.

Bukowski sat on the edge of the mattress, beer can in one hand, hairy belly bulging over the frayed waistline of his boxers, a deadline waiting at the typewriter in the next room. He closely examined his calloused bare feet and recited the Winter sonnet in his head as the music over the radio evoked dagger-sharp icy rain and darkening thunderstorms.

Allegro non molto
Shivering, frozen mid the frosty snow in biting, stinging winds;
running to and fro to stamp one’s icy feet, teeth chattering in the bitter chill.

Largo
To rest contentedly beside the hearth, while those outside are drenched by pouring rain.

Allegro
We tread the icy path slowly and cautiously, for fear of tripping and falling.
Then turn abruptly, slip, crash on the ground and, rising, hasten on across the ice lest it cracks up.
We feel the chill north winds course through the home despite the locked and bolted doors…
this is winter, which nonetheless brings its own delights.

Bukowski considered a hangnail on the big toe of his left foot. It hurt like a mother. The toenail clippers were nowhere to be found in his line of vision. With great strain, he bent forward and clenched the offending nail in his teeth and yanked. It bled and bit and stung like a winter wind.

Previously: Bukowski and Joe Camel