In Vienna there are ten pretty women
There's a shoulder where Death comes to cry
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows
There's a tree where the doves go to die
It's hard to imagine even our most poetical of musicians getting away with such lush imagery.
Cohen named his daughter Lorca. That's a beautiful name.
At some point in the early nineties, I got to see a Lorca play being performed. I believe it was Yerma, & it was eye-opening & jaw-dropping to hear the lines of the play - so poetic - being recited by actors. It's the same epiphany one feels when one sees Shakespeare performed for the first time, especially after having been forced to read it for a class. Poems were meant to be sung, I believe.
Why, in general, aren't they?
After that time, I would pepper Lorca lines in letters & emails I wrote to women I was courting. Here's one:
Like a snake, my heart
has shed its skin.
I hold it here in my hands,
full of honey and wounds.
Here's another:
Only your hot heart,
nothing more.
& one more:
The guitar
makes dreams cry.
The sobbing
of lost souls
escapes
its round mouth.
& like the tarantula
it weaves a great star
to ensnare sighs floating
in its black
cistern of wood.
That last one, called "Six Strings," was one I'm sure Leonard Cohen knew intimately.
Gosh, it would have been nice to have a conversation with him once in my life. I'll have to live for the rest of my life with all the conversations I've had & will continue to have with the beautiful music he made.
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