Sunday, June 28, 2009

Listening To Leonard Cohen

It's dark.
I lie on the floor at the foot of the stairs
my head under the music, penetrated
by these songs I've never heard before,
inhabited by all the sad melancholy, the tenderness,
the mysterious beauty and hard, bitter agony
of the world
I'm just emerging into.
I've known this all my life.

I'm listening to my own heart beat,
listening to the night's heart beat thickly
all around, thoughtless, catching
stray lyrics, knowing only suspension,
not knowing
how long I lie there,
till the music is gone
and there's only the darkness
and I'm looking at nothing

and I'm looking at nothing

I'm sitting deep in a concert hall
looking through the dark
at the man
whose songs I know
as if written on the inside of my skin. Age
sits comfortably with him
and the currency here
is simplicity wrought with care
and a generosity
like that of a sea-conch singing.

His cracked voice
somehow conjures love,
and leaves us with a prayer.

At four in the morning
I hear his breath go out.
And all the longing roll back in.

Rollo and I
dance to 'Tower of Song',
delighting in its spacious company,

There are poets,
and poets of Song.
When my funeral comes
let words carve silence.

14 June 2009

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