Category: Lyrics and Pics
Outside Union Station In the Light as the Snow Begins to Fall
Outside Union Station as the snow begins to fall
The last I saw of you was your shadow disappearing along the wall
You ducked into the crowd of people pushing toward the train
And the ticket man only laughed when I shouted out your name
I thought my words would keep you, but that didn’t work at all
They’re in a puddle outside Union Station, as the snow begins to fall
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Something random I wrote a few minutes ago to accompany the picture. A little dim for Valentine’s Day, I know, but it’s not a reflection of my mood or anything resembling reality. I’ve just been listening to a lot of Leonard Cohen tonight.
For Leonard Cohen on his 77th Birthday
With Annie gone,
whose eyes to compare
with the morning sun?
Not that I did compare,
But I do compare
Now that she’s gone.
It must have been about 10 years ago. Sitting on the bus without reading material or music, I began perusing the advertisements that run just above the windows. One of the first that I read happened to be a regular feature on the TTC called “Poetry on the Way” – a cultural initiative that features poems by Canadian poets, along with a short biography. This particular installment featured the poem For Anne, by Leonard Cohen.
The few lines, in italics above, grip me to this day.
Writing in Montreal (or Dispelling the CanLit stereotype)
There’s a reason I get a tingling sensation under my skin every time I go to Montreal. So many of my favourite authors 
hail from that city (from Mavis Gallant to Mordecai Richler to Leonard himself, among others) and in 2003 I brought a copy of Stranger Music on my inaugural trip there.
Each night, while my roommates slept, I stayed up with my mini-lamp reading Leonard’s poems. After a while I’d stare out onto Sherbrooke Street and at Mont Royal with its glowing crucifix before reaching for my notebook and crafting lines of my own.
By this point, a year or so after seeing For Anne on the bus, I had purchased numerous Leonard Cohen albums and books. As a writer, Leonard taught me that not all Canadian literature had to be about growing up on the prairies while coming to grips with your mother’s alcoholism that one carries like a stone on his shoulders while playing hockey and chasing beavers. CanLit gets that stereotype all too often, but reading Leonard’s work shattered it for me in a heartbeat. He proved that it is possible in one’s writing to be raw, honest, vulnerable, sentimental and selfish and pull it off with such brilliant composition and metaphor that the reader is forced to stop and consider your every line.
That is the magic, and the irony of Leonard’s work: it’s at once so personal for his readers, as if he mines the memories of our most desperate experiences and then writes down what he finds. Yet, he expresses it with verses so powerful that if we were to try ourselves they’d be beyond our capability to assemble. Instead of holding up a mirror to his audience, he’s holding an x-ray.
Leaves That Are Green, by Simon and Garfunkel
Leaves That Are Green
by Simon and Garfunkel
I was twenty-one years when I wrote this song.
I’m twenty-two now but I won’t be for long
Time hurries on.
And the leaves that are green turn to brown,
And they wither with the wind,
And they crumble in your hand. Continue reading
#151: Lost in the Forest…., by Pablo Neruda
Lost in the forest…
by Pablo Neruda
Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.
Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.
Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind
as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood—
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#143: Abandoned Love
I can hear the turning of the key
I’ve been deceived by the clown inside of me
I thought that he was righteous but he’s vain
Oh, something’s a-telling me I wear the ball and chain
My patron saint is a-fighting with a ghost
He’s always off somewhere when I need him most
The Spanish moon is rising on the hill
But my heart is a-tellin’ me I love ya still
I come back to the town from the flaming moon
I see you in the streets, I begin to swoon
I love to see you dress before the mirror
Won’t you let me in your room one time ’fore I finally disappear?
Everybody’s wearing a disguise
To hide what they’ve got left behind their eyes
But me, I can’t cover what I am
Wherever the children go I’ll follow them
I march in the parade of liberty
But as long as I love you I’m not free
How long must I suffer such abuse
Won’t you let me see you smile one time before I turn you loose?
I’ve given up the game, I’ve got to leave
The pot of gold is only make-believe
The treasure can’t be found by men who search
Whose gods are dead and whose queens are in the church
We sat in an empty theater and we kissed
I asked ya please to cross me off-a your list
My head tells me it’s time to make a change
But my heart is telling me I love ya but you’re strange
One more time at midnight, near the wall
Take off your heavy makeup and your shawl
Won’t you descend from the throne, from where you sit?
Let me feel your love one more time before I abandon it
Copyright © 1975 by Ram’s Horn Music; renewed 2003 by Ram’s Horn Music
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#132: Hitchhiker, by Jack Kerouac
Hitchhiker
‘Tryna get to sunny Californy’ -
Boom. It’s the awful raincoat
making me look like a selfdefeated self-murdering imaginary gangster, an idiot in a rueful coat, how can they understand my damp packs – my mud packs -
Look John, a hitchhiker’
He looks like he’s got a gun underneath that I. R. A. coat’
‘Look Fred, that man by the road’ „Some sexfiend got in print in 1938 in Sex Magazine’ –
You found his blue corpse in a greenshade edition, with axe blots’
Jack Kerouac
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#117: Distillery Dodge Poetry
For a war-worn Dodge
Bombarded on battlefields
Dissected in scrap shops
Rusted from the snow
As gawkers in the street
Dance past with their cameras
A discarded soda bottle
Is the least of its tragedies.
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#114: Easter Prayer
It is only right,
with all the powers of our heart and mind,
to praise You Father
and Your Only-begotten Son,
Our Lord Jesus Christ:
Dear Father, by Your wondrous
condescension of loving-kindness toward us,
Your servants, You gave up Your Son.
Dear Jesus You paid the debt of Adam
for us to the Eternal Father by
Your Blood poured
fourth in loving-kindness.
You cleared away the darkness of sin
By Your magnificent and radiant Resurrection.
You broke the bonds of death
and rose from the grave as a Conqueror.
You reconciled heaven and earth.
Our life had no hope of eternal happiness
before You redeemed us.
Your Resurrection has washed away our sins,
restored our innocence and brought us joy.
How inestimable is the tenderness
of Your love!
Saint Gregory the Great’s Easter Prayer
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#112: Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward, by John Donne & Good Friday Prayer
Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward
by John Donne
O Jesus, Who by reason of Thy burning love for us
hast willed to be crucified
and to shed Thy Most Precious Blood
for the redemption and salvation of our souls,
look down upon us here gathered together
in remembrance of Thy most sorrowful Passion and Death,
fully trusting in Thy mercy;
cleanse us from sin by Thy grace,
sanctify our toil,
give unto us and unto all those who are dear to us our
daily bread,
sweeten our sufferings,
bless our families,
and to the nations so sorely afflicted,
grant Thy peace,
which is the only true peace,
so that by obeying Thy commandments
we may come at last to the glory of heaven.
Amen.
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#107: Pilate’s Wife’s Dream, by Charlotte Bronte
In honour of the Easter season, an excerpt from the poem Pilate’s Wife’s Dream, by Charlotte Bronte. For the full poem, click here.
From Pilate’s Wife’s Dream, by Charlotte Bronte:
I see it all–I know the dusky sign–
A cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear
While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine
Pilate, to judge the victim, will appear–
Pass sentence-yield Him up to crucify;
And on that cross the spotless Christ must die.
Dreams, then, are true–for thus my vision ran;
Surely some oracle has been with me,
The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan,
To warn an unjust judge of destiny:
I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know,
Christ’s coming death, and Pilate’s life of woe.
I do not weep for Pilate–who could prove
Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway
No prayer can soften, no appeal can move:
Who tramples hearts as others trample clay,
Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread,
That might stir up reprisal in the dead.
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#97: From “Bernadette”, by Paul Simon
Kristina among the leaves
“Come with me
There’s a place I want you to see
When the leaves are dark
I’ve got a hiding place in Central Park”
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#78: Excerpt from T.S. Eliot’s “Wasteland”
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
– T.S. Eliot
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#68: Colonel Samuel Smith Park *Part One (after Bob Dylan)
Colonel Samuel Smith Park *Part One
(after Bob Dylan)
I sat on a bench in Colonel Samuel Smith Park
Where the trees claw toward spring from behind their peeling bark
And the waves off the lake helped to pass the wretched time
As I considered the merits of a rambling six-line rhyme
It was then the Colonel asked, “Are you more hungry or proud?”
So I finished up this verse and read it out loud.
When I looked up the boys were passing with their ships
And the artist sketched the leaves while a pretty girl collected tips
I asked the artist for the reason he wouldn’t sketch the sky
He said, “Cuz it looks down on me everyday, that’s why.”
So I turned away and the pretty girl was nowhere to be seen
Lost among the land given to the Colonel by the Queen.
I put my pen down and wandered over to the pier
Down on the docks the old dogs were lapping up spilt beer
I made a wish on a rock and threw it to the bottom of the lake
The Colonel said, “Boy, you’ve gone and made a grave mistake.
You need money to make wishes and an idea to make a buck
So before you count your blessings you’d better check your luck.”
He continued, “Long ago I was a young man just like you:
Restless as a wild boar and just as hungry too.
I fought my way through trenches and killed once or twice
But war is like a maze and we were a bunch of blinded mice
Then the Queen shook my hand and granted me one wish
I said I never again want to worry about having food upon my dish.”
The Colonel’s words inspired me as I gazed upon the bay
I thanked him for walking with me all along the way
He patted me on the back and retired to his favourite maple tree
And that’s when I saw the pretty girl across from me
She was standing over on the other side of the lake
She’d cashed in her tips and bought herself a birthday cake.
I hurried along the dirt path and met her on the other side
The cake was in her hands and her mouth was open wide
I asked, “Are you going to eat that entire cake by yourself?”
She said, “I was just going to taste it and then spit the rest of it out.”
I smiled as she huffed and puffed and blew the flames from their wicks
Then I asked her if she knows any more good blowing tricks
So with a force that I did not expect my lady took the lead
She guided me by the hand to a home she’d made inside an old oak tree
We entered through a hole that a saw-toothed squirrel had made
Down a chequered hallway past a Native palisade
Up some stairs and through an atrium and into a large red room
With satin chairs and chandeliers and a view of the full moon….
….
MC
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#63: Say Goodbye to Alexandria
I found this poem online today. It’s by a Greek poet named Constantine P. Cavafy, and Leonard Cohen based his song “Alexandra Leaving” on it.
The god forsakes Antony
When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who were given this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final delectation—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.
- Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
#62: I Left a Woman Lying Once….
I left a woman lying once
Upon her flower bed
Torn paper strewn across the floor
Burning oil by her head
I wanted her thoughts, I craved her words
But our evening held a thirst for flesh
Her faultless lips touched my fingertips
As I kissed her golden neck
It was to love and drink and truth
That we owed our racing thoughts
She told me there were men who’d forgotten her
I knew that I would not
MC
This post appears as part of the FOCUS 365 photo blog component of Bastard Type
