Poems and Songs by Leonard Cohen

Source of book: I own this.

 

Before Covid ruined everything, we used to have library sales. The last few, there have been some great hardback poetry collections, including this small Everyman’s Library edition of Leonard Cohen’s poems and songs. 

 

The origins of poetry are in song. From time immemorial, poetry and song have been one and the same, with the separation really only occurring with the rise of literacy and the printed word. We know Homer now because someone wrote down a version of his greatest epics. But nobody back then would have thought of the Iliad as a dry reading - it would have been sung, and the seemingly repetitive sections used much the way we use a chorus in our modern pop songs. 

 

It certainly isn’t just the old Greeks either. Medieval poetry was mostly sung - since people couldn’t read (for the most part) unless they were part of the Church/Clerical class, the medium of song would be the way poetry was shared. The old ballads and madrigals are but one example. 

 

And then Gutenberg ruined everything. 

 

Or something like that. During the Renaissance, the old classics were rediscovered - without the music, however, since tunes were not written down. New poets such as Dante could disseminate their works without the need for minstrels, and the printed word started to predominate over the sung word. 

 

The eventual result of this was that poetry as an art form became increasingly distant from that of song, the sounds of the words expected to make music without the benefit of a tune. These days, much poetry lacks either rhyme or meter, and would be extremely difficult to set to music. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Art forms evolve, both words and music, and clinging to the past results in museums, not vibrancy. That said, I do believe the divorce of poetry and music has been a factor in the decline of poetry in our culture. (I am surprised to find a fellow poetry lover, in an era when most people don’t care about it.) 

 

This is not to say that the divorce has been complete. Rather, the unity of poetry and music lives on in a number of forms. Plenty of popular music has poetic lyrics - some better than others, obviously. (“My Humps” is a desecration of all that is lovely in both music and poetry.) Perhaps the most vibrant unity is in Hip Hop, which is unsurprising, because here in America, our best and most “American” art has arisen from the African American community, from Gospel to the Blues to Motown, to Hip Hop. If nothing else, the way Hamilton has become a cultural touchstone - even my kids can recite the lyrics - shows that music and poetry can still unite in an amazing way. 

 

In the same way, but on a less blockbuster scale, poetry and music remain united in the works of the best songwriters. Leonard Cohen is first and foremost a songwriter, and even his non-musical poetry shows the influence of song. Reading this collection, I was struck by the significant differences between his works and those of “pure” poets of the same era. Cohen uses the old Ballad Stanza form quite a lot - a form that is well suited to song, but is often looked down on these days as a lowbrow shortcut. (This is partly justified by the fact that every fifth-rate amateur poet of my parents’ generation seemed to write in it.) It can indeed be done poorly. But it can also be done well. Cohen’s use of it may seem anachronistic, but he makes excellent use of the form. 

 

Cohen’s poems and lyrics are ironic, wry, witty, poisonous, bitter, humorous, and perceptive by turns. He is strongly in the vein of other lyricists like Bob Dylan, with lyrics often political. I rather enjoyed reading this collection, and feel weird trying to describe his works further than that. Perhaps quoting a few will do the job. 

 

Prayer for Messiah

 

His blood on my arm is warm as a bird

his heart in my hand is heavy as lead

his eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love

O send out the raven ahead of the dove

 

His life in my mouth is less than a man

his death on my breast is harder than stone

his eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love

O send out the raven ahead of the dove

 

O send out the raven ahead of the dove

O sing from your chains where you’re chained in a cave

your eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love

your blood in my ballad collapses the grave

 

O sing from your chains where you’re chained in a cave

your eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love

your heart in my hand is heavy as lead

your blood on my arm is warm as a bird

 

O break from your branches a green branch of love

after the raven has died for the dove

 

There is so much to unpack in this poem, starting with the symbolism of the Dove (peace, love, faith, purity), and the Raven (loss, ill-omen, but also prophesy and insight, and the connection between the living and the dead.) Although Cohen was Jewish (with a Buddhist twist), the ideas here seem strikingly similar to the Christian messiah: prophesy and death are the necessary antecedents of peace and faith, and the blood of an innocent murdered forms the basis for a reconciliation. However you interpret it, it is a powerful poem. Later, Cohen set it to music. 

 

Another poem that was eventually expanded into a song is this one. I think I prefer the shorter poem version. 

 

As the Mist Leaves No Scar

 

As the mist leaves no scar

On the dark green hill,

So my body leaves no scar

On you, nor ever will.

 

When wind and hawk encounter,

What remains to keep?

So you and I encounter,

Then turn, then fall to sleep.

 

As many nights endure

Without a moon or star,

So will we endure,

When one is gone and far.

 

Cohen writes so beautifully about the imperfect nature of relationships, even the good ones. Sex itself seems to him a slippery thing, which both intertwines the lovers and yet often fails to bring a full connection. Two become one, but remain two, so to speak. I particularly love how he writes relationships which aren’t particularly good, but are still human and sympathetic and messy and real. It is a bit long to quote, but how about Cohen reading “You Have the Lovers”? It’s outstanding. 

 

Gift

 

     You tell me that silence

is nearer to peace than poems

but if for my gift

I brought you silence

(for I know silence)

you would say

     This is not silence

this is another poem

and you would hand it back to me.

 

I am a sucker for short poems with a distilled truth. I love this one. I also find certain stanzas in longer poems to be good even by themselves. Such is the case with this one, found in “On Hearing A Name Long Unspoken.” 

 

History is a needle

for putting men asleep

anointed with poison

of all they want to keep

 

This is kind of MAGA in a nutshell. Let’s look to the past, poisoned with all the power and privilege we wish to keep. Another fragment I liked was the opening of “One of Us Cannot Be Wrong.”

 

I lit a thin green candle

to make you jealous of me

but the room just filled up with mosquitoes

they heard that my body was free

 

That one still makes me laugh. Mosquitoes love me way too much. And this one, from “The Window”:

 

Oh bless the continuous stutter 

of the word being made into flesh.

 

In light of my own journey regarding the incarnation (and an incarnational view of scripture), that one makes a lot of sense. Humans can at best understand the Divine “through a glass, dimly,” and the idea of the Logos being made flesh...but in a stutter, makes so much sense. 

 

Here is another one that really spoke to me. 

 

For E. J. P. 

 

I once believed a single line

in a Chinese poem could change

forever how blossoms fell

and that the moon itself climbed on

the grief of concise weeping men

to journey over cups of wine

I thought invasions were begun for crows

to pick at a skeleton

dynasties sown and spent

to serve the language of a fine lament

I thought governors ended their lives

as sweetly drunken monks

telling time by rain and candles

instructed by an insect's pilgrimage

across the page - all this

so one might send an exile's perfect letter

to an ancient hometown friend

 

I chose a lonely country

broke from love

scorned the eternity of war

I polished my tongue against the pumice moon

floated my soul in cherry wine

a perfumed barge for Lords of Memory

to languish on to drink to whisper out

their store of strength

as if beyond the mist along the shore

their girls their power still obeyed

like clocks wound for a thousand years

I waited until my tongue was sore

 

Brown petals wind like fire around my poems

I aimed them at the stars but

like rainbows they were bent

before they sawed the world in half

Who can trace the canyoned paths

cattle have carved out of time

wandering from meadowlands to feasts

Layer after layer of autumn leaves

are swept away

Something forgets us perfectly

 

I’ll just leave that one there. And also this one, which is phenomenal. 

 

Welcome To These Lines

 

There is a war on

but I'll try to make you comfortable

Don't follow my conversation

it's just nervousness

Didn't I make love to you

when we were students of the East

Yes the house is different

I've removed whatever

might give comfort to the enemy

We are alone

until the times change

and those who have betrayed

come back like pilgrims to this moment

when we did not yield

and call this darkness poetry.

 

Cohen is brilliant when he talks about war and power and our truly messed up politics. Here is another poem that touches a sensitive spot. 

 

The Killers

 

The killers that run

the other countries

are trying to get us

to overthrow the killers

that run our own

I for one

prefer the rule

of our native killers

I am convinced

the foreign killer

will kill more of us

than the old familiar killer does

Frankly I don’t believe

anyone out there

really wants us to solve

our social problems

I base this all on how I feel

about the man next door

I just hope he doesn’t

get any uglier

Therefore I am a patriot

I don’t like to see

a burning flag

because it excites

the killers on either side

to unfortunate excess

which goes on gaily

quite unchecked

until everyone is dead

 

Damn. That’s pretty much the jingoistic foreign (and domestic) policy that dominates the GOP right now. 

 

Throughout this collection are also short prose bits on a variety of topics. They also appear to be from a variety of media. For example, the first of these became a song - with slightly different words - while the second is from a collection of “Contemporary Psalms.” They are interesting, and a change from the poetic songs and writings. 

 

There Is A War

 

There is a war between the rich and poor, a war between the man and the woman. There is a war between the ones who say there is a war and the ones who say there isn't. Why don't you come on back to the war? It's just beginning. 

 

Well I live here with a woman and a child, the situation makes me kind of nervous. I rise up from her arms, she says "I guess you call this love. I call it Room Service.” Why don't you come on back to the war? Don't be a tourist. Why don't you come on back to the war? Let's all get nervous. 

 

You cannot stand what I've become, you much prefer the gentleman I was before. I was so easy to defeat. I was so easy to control. I didn't even know there was a war. Why don't you come on back to the war? Don't be embarrassed. Why don't you come on back to the war? You can still get married. 

 

There is a war between the rich and poor, a war between the man and the woman. There is a war between the left and right, a war between the black and white, a war between the odd and the even. Why don't you come on back to the war? Take up your tiny burden. Why don't you come on back to the war? It’s just beginning. Why don't you come on back to the war? Let's all get even.

 

In particular, the line, “There is a war between the ones who say there is a war and the ones who say there isn’t.” is outstanding and so relevant to our times. “There is no systemic racism.” “There is no war on the poor.” “There is no Pandemic.” And on and on. 

 

My Teacher

 

My teacher gave me what I do not need, told me what I need not know. At a high price he sold me water beside the river. In the middle of a dream he led me gently to my bed. He threw me out when I was crawling, took me in when I was home. He referred me to the crickets when I had to sing, and when I tried to be alone he fastened me to a congregation. He curled his fists and pounded me toward my proper shape. He puked in disgust when I swelled without filling. He sank his tiger teeth into everything of mine that I refused to claim. He drove me through the pine trees at an incredible speed to that realm where I barked with a dog, slid with the shadows, and leaped from a point of view. He let me be a student of a love that I will never be able to give. He suffered me to play at friendship with my truest friend. When he was certain that I was incapable of self-reform, he flung me across the fence of the Torah.

 

I’d like to dedicate that one to Bill Gothard and every Fundie religious teacher I have ever had. 

 

Shifting gears a bit, this one, on the hopeless pursuit of perfect art and beauty, is rather lovely. 

 

Came So Far For Beauty

 

I came so far for beauty

I left so much behind

My patience and my family

My masterpiece unsigned

 

I thought I'd be rewarded

For such a lonely choice

And surely she would answer

To such a very hopeless voice

 

I practiced all my sainthood

I gave to one and all

But the rumors of my virtue

They moved her not at all

 

I changed my style to silver

I changed my clothed to black

And where I would surrender

Now I would attack

 

I stormed the old casino

For the money and the flesh

And I myself decided

What was rotten and what was fresh

 

And men to do my bidding

And broken bones to teach

The value of my pardon

The shadow of my reach

 

But no, I could not touch her

With such a heavy hand

Her star beyond my order

Her nakedness unmanned

 

I came so far for beauty

I left so much behind

My patience and my family

My masterpiece unsigned

 

For this next one, I will go with the recording of Cohen singing it. I first experienced this song in the Don Henley version, which is good. But Don Henley is also a prick who has made it near-impossible to find online versions of his songs. And Cohen’s version is excellent anyway. He’s almost into Tom Waits territory with the gravelly bass on this song. Yet another song that seems as relevant as ever. 

 

 

Speaking of relevant songs, here is another that really resonated with my own journey. This one too is best experienced as a song. 

 

 

That one line, “Every heart / to love will come / but like a refugee.” I can’t help but believe that this is what will happen. There are so many who have made hate for those outside the tribe their fundamental reality. I believe most (maybe all) will eventually (after the grave, though) come seeing love...but as a refugee from what they have made themselves. 

 

For the most part, I have tried to avoid the best known of Cohen’s poems, but I did have to quote this one:

 

First We Take Manhattan

 

They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom

For trying to change the system from within

I'm coming now, I'm coming to reward them

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

 

I'm guided by a signal in the heavens 

I'm guided by this birthmark on my skin 

I'm guided by the beauty of our weapons 

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

 

I'd really like to live beside you, baby

I love your body and your spirit and your clothes

But you see that line there moving through the station?

I told you, I told you, told you, I was one of those

 

Ah, you loved me as a loser

But now you're worried that I just might win

You know the way to stop me, but you don't have the discipline

How many nights I prayed for this, to let my work begin

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

 

I don't like your fashion business, mister

And I don't like these drugs that keep you thin

I don't like what happened to my sister

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

 

I'd really like to live beside you, baby

I love your body and your spirit and your clothes

But you see that line there moving through the station?

I told you, I told you, told you, I was one of those

 

And I thank you for those items that you sent me, 

The monkey and the plywood violin

I practiced every night, now I'm ready

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin 

 

Remember me, I used to live for music 

Remember me, I brought your groceries in 

Well, it's Father's Day and everybody's wounded 

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

 

I’ll end with this one, not as dark as many, but with that tinge of shadow yet, which haunts most of Cohen’s poems. 

 

Love Itself

 

The light came through the window

Straight from the sun above

And so inside my little room

There plunged the rays of love

 

In streams of light I clearly saw

The dust you seldom see,

Out of which the nameless makes

A name for one like me

 

I'll try to say a little more

Love went on and on

Until it reached an open door

Love itself was gone

 

All busy in the sunlight

The flecks did float and dance

And I was tumbled up with them

In formless circumstance

 

I'll try to say a little more

Love went on and on

Until it reached an open door

Love itself was gone

 

Then I came back from where I'd been

My room, it looked the same

But there was nothing left between

The nameless and the name

 

All busy in the sunlight

The flecks did float and dance

And I was tumbled up with them

In formless circumstance

 

I'll try to say a little more

Love went on and on

Until it reached an open door

Love itself was gone

 

I wasn’t sure what to expect from Cohen going in. After all, he has some rather fanatical fans, and others who are so freaking over hearing “Hallelujah” everywhere, and worse, as a Christmas song (which it most certainly isn’t.) But I rather enjoyed him. I’ll do my best not to be an annoying fanboy, but I think he is well worth reading.