where birds of different feathers flock together ...

There's that poem of Emily Dickinson.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I've heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of Me.

I've known it for a long time, and I still can appreciate it, unconditionally.

And then there's Bukowski.

the bluebird

there's a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him
I say stay in there I'm not going
to let anybody see you.

there's a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him
and inhale cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that he's in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him
I say stay down
do you want to mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales
in Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I'm too clever I only let
him out at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say I know that you're there
so don't be sad.
then I put him back
but he's singing a little in there
I haven't quite let him die
and we sleep together like that
with our secret pact
and it's nice enough to make a man weep
but I don't weep

do you?

I could have known it for a long time, I had a copy close at hand - if only it had begged me pardon. But only recently there was motive to pay attention to it.
I do appreciate it too, although in a sophisticated manner.

Is it possible to find two poems, dealing with the same subject, with such an oppositeness in point of view, character, tendency?
The bird of Emily Dickinson feathers your struggle, your conduct.
The expression is obsolete now, but there is no need for it - if anything, Charles Bukowski makes you feel unfeathered.

The contrast in resemblance struck me at once.
A twin of divers breed.

I feel some temptation to speculate about Bukowski, knowing that Dickinson poem and thinking: what a sentimental shit. I can do far better!
Can you imagine the two, meeting each other in the Pantheon of poets.

Or ... can it be that we are dissembled by the Bukowski show, by the poem.
I mean, there's something inharmonious, it doesn't fit.
In another poem he writes
in the bottom of the hour / lurks / ... / the absence of wise old men.
I do not think this man could bear old wise men around - it wouldn't take much time to figure out about that bluebird!

Here is what I think.
The poem of Bukowski confirms the thing with feathers of Dickinson!

Aren't we seeing a struggle we all know of?
Not being able to get everything right, to work things out.
Seeing an unbridgeable gap.
And we do not want to know the difference between "not being able to" and "unwillingly".
We desperately want to be unwillingly, because otherwise we have to admit that we are incapable.

Why does he write it down?
Why is he asking
do you?"

He is boosting to someone about his so-called secret pact!

So in my opinion he says:
yes, Dickinson is right
there's that little birdie
but I'm the boss
I can do as I like

He thinks he's the boss of it all.
That's his illusion.

That's his hope!
... the thing with feathers.

That's where the twin are meeting.