Poem: Gift

Source: Tumblr/Favim

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.

There are some men

There are some men
who should have mountains
to bear their names through time
Grave markers are not high enough or green
and sons go far away to lose the fist
their father’s hand will always seem

I had a friend he lived and died
in mighty silence and with dignity
left no book, son or lover to mourn.
Nor is this a mourning song
but only a naming of this mountain
on which I walk
fragrant, dark and softly white
under the pale of mist
I name this mountain after him.

Believe nothing of me
Except that I felt your beauty
more closely than my own.
I did not see any cities burn,
I heard no promises of endless night,
I felt your beauty
more closely than my own.
Promise me that I will return.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

~ Leonard Cohen

Poem: Gift

Source: Tumblr/Favim

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.

There are some men

There are some men
who should have mountains
to bear their names through time
Grave markers are not high enough or green
and sons go far away to lose the fist
their father’s hand will always seem

I had a friend he lived and died
in mighty silence and with dignity
left no book, son or lover to mourn.
Nor is this a mourning song
but only a naming of this mountain
on which I walk
fragrant, dark and softly white
under the pale of mist
I name this mountain after him.

Believe nothing of me
Except that I felt your beauty
more closely than my own.
I did not see any cities burn,
I heard no promises of endless night,
I felt your beauty
more closely than my own.
Promise me that I will return.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

~ Leonard Cohen

Quote on saints

Credit: Mukesh Srivastava

A saint is someone who has achieved a remote human possibility. It is impossible to say what that possibility is. I think it has something to do with the energy of love. Contact with this energy results in the exercise of a kind of balance in the chaos of existence. A saint does not dissolve the chaos; if he did the world would have changed long ago. I do not think that a saint dissolves the chaos even for himself, for there is something arrogant and warlike in the notion of a man setting the universe in order. It is a kind of balance that is his glory. He rides the drifts like an escaped ski. His course is a caress of the hill. His track is a drawing of the snow in a moment of its particular arrangement with wind and rock. Something in him so loves the world that he gives himself to the laws of gravity and chance. Far from flying with the angels, he traces with the fidelity of a seismograph needle the state of the solid bloody landscape. His house is dangerous and finite, but he is at home in the world. He can love the shapes of human beings, the fine and twisted shapes of the heart. It is good to have among us such men, such balancing monsters of love. It makes me think that the numbers in the bag actually correspond to the numbers on the raffles we have bought so dearly, and so the prize is not an illusion.

~ Leonard Cohen

Quote on saints

Credit: Mukesh Srivastava

A saint is someone who has achieved a remote human possibility. It is impossible to say what that possibility is. I think it has something to do with the energy of love. Contact with this energy results in the exercise of a kind of balance in the chaos of existence. A saint does not dissolve the chaos; if he did the world would have changed long ago. I do not think that a saint dissolves the chaos even for himself, for there is something arrogant and warlike in the notion of a man setting the universe in order. It is a kind of balance that is his glory. He rides the drifts like an escaped ski. His course is a caress of the hill. His track is a drawing of the snow in a moment of its particular arrangement with wind and rock. Something in him so loves the world that he gives himself to the laws of gravity and chance. Far from flying with the angels, he traces with the fidelity of a seismograph needle the state of the solid bloody landscape. His house is dangerous and finite, but he is at home in the world. He can love the shapes of human beings, the fine and twisted shapes of the heart. It is good to have among us such men, such balancing monsters of love. It makes me think that the numbers in the bag actually correspond to the numbers on the raffles we have bought so dearly, and so the prize is not an illusion.

~ Leonard Cohen

A Kite is a Victim

Photo credit: kakisky from morguefile.com

A kite is a victim you are sure of.

You love it because it pulls

gentle enough to call you master,

strong enough to call you fool;

because it lives

like a desperate trained falcon

in the high sweet air,

and you can always haul it down

to tame it in your drawer.

A kite is a fish you have already caught

in a pool where no fish come,

so you play him carefully and long,

and hope he won't give up,

or the wind die down.

A kite is the last poem you've written,

so you give it to the wind,

but you don't let it go

until someone finds you

something else to do.

A kite is a contract of glory

that must be made with the sun,

so you make friends with the field

the river and the wind,

then you pray the whole cold night before,

under the travelling cordless moon,

to make you worthy and lyric and pure.

~ Leonard Cohen

A Kite is a Victim

Photo credit: kakisky from morguefile.com

A kite is a victim you are sure of.

You love it because it pulls

gentle enough to call you master,

strong enough to call you fool;

because it lives

like a desperate trained falcon

in the high sweet air,

and you can always haul it down

to tame it in your drawer.

A kite is a fish you have already caught

in a pool where no fish come,

so you play him carefully and long,

and hope he won't give up,

or the wind die down.

A kite is the last poem you've written,

so you give it to the wind,

but you don't let it go

until someone finds you

something else to do.

A kite is a contract of glory

that must be made with the sun,

so you make friends with the field

the river and the wind,

then you pray the whole cold night before,

under the travelling cordless moon,

to make you worthy and lyric and pure.

~ Leonard Cohen