how to speak poetry by leonard cohen

How To Speak Poetry by Leonard Cohen

Take the word butterfly. To use this word it is not necessary to make the voice weigh less than an ounce or equip it with small dusty wings. It is not necessary to invent a sunny day or a field of daffodils. It is not necessary to be in love, or to be in love with butterflies. The word butterfly is not a real butterfly. There is the word and there is the butterfly. If you confuse these two items people have the right to laugh at you. Do not make so much of the word. Are you trying to suggest that you love butterflies more perfectly than anyone else, or really understand their nature? The word butterfly is merely data. It is not an opportunity for you to hover, soar, befriend flowers, symbolize beauty and frailty, or in any way impersonate a butterfly. Do not act out words. Never act out words. Never try to leave the floor when you talk about flying. Never close your eyes and jerk your head to one side when you talk about death. Do not fix your burning eyes on me when you speak about love. If you want to impress me when you speak about love put your hand in your pocket or under your dress and play with yourself. If ambition and the hunger for applause have driven you to speak about love you should learn how to do it without disgracing yourself or the material.

What is the expression which the age demands? The age demands no expression whatever. We have seen photographs of bereaved Asian mothers. We are not interested in the agony of your fumbled organs. There is nothing you can show on your face that can match the horror of this time. Do not even try. You will only hold yourself up to the scorn of those who have felt things deeply. We have seen newsreels of humans in the extremities of pain and dislocation. Everyone knows you are eating well and are even being paid to stand up there. You are playing to people who have experienced a catastrophe. This should make you very quiet.

Speak the words, convey the data, step aside. Everyone knows you are in pain. You cannot tell the audience everything you know about love in every line of love you speak. Step aside and they will know what you know because you know it already. You have nothing to teach them. You are not more beautiful than they are. You are not wiser. Do not shout at them. Do not force a dry entry. That is bad sex. If you show the lines of your genitals, then deliver what you promise. And remember that people do not really want an acrobat in bed. What is our need? To be close to the natural man, to be close to the natural woman. Do not pretend that you are a beloved singer with a vast loyal audience which has followed the ups and downs of your life to this very moment. The bombs, flame-throwers, and all the shit habe destroyed more than just the trees and villages. They have also destroyed the stage. Did you think that your profession would escape the general destruction? There is no more stage. There are no more footlights. You are among the people. Then be modest. Speak the words, convey the data, step aside. Be by yourself. Be in your own room. Do not put yourself on.
This is an interior landscape. It is inside. It is private. Respect the privacy of the material. These pieces were written in silence. The courage of the play is to speak them. The discipline of the play is not to violate them. Let the audience feel your love of privacy even though there is no privacy. Be good whores. The poem is not a slogan. It cannot advertise you. It cannot promote your reputation for sensitivity. You are not a stud. You are not a killer lady. All this junk about the gangsters of love. You are students of discipline. Do not act out the words. The words die when you act them out, they wither, and we are left with nothing but your ambition.

Speak the words with the exact precision with which you would check out a laundry list. Do not become emotional about the lace blouse. Do not get a hard-on when you say panties. Do not get all shivery just because of the towel. The sheets should not provoke a dreamy expression about the eyes. There is no need to weep into the handkerchief. The socks are not there to remind you of strange and distant voyages. It is just your laundry. It is just your clothes. Don’t peep through them. Just wear them.

The poem is nothing but information. It is the Consitution of the inner country. If you declaim it and blow it up with noble intentions then you are no better than the politicians whom you despise. You are just someone waving a flag and making the cheapest kind of appeal to a kind of emotional patriotism. Think of the words as science, not as art. They are a report. You are speaking before a meeting of the Explorers’ Club of the National Geographic Society. These people know all the risks of mountain climbing. They honour you by taking this for granted. If you rub their faces in it that is an insult to their hospitality. Tell them about the height of the mountain, the equipment you used, be specific about the surfaces and the time it took to scale it. Do not work the audience for gasps ans sighs. If you are worthy of gasps and sighs it will not be from your appreciation of the event but from theirs. It will be in the statistics and not the trembling of the voice or the cutting of the air with your hands. It will be in the data and the quiet organization of your presence.

Avoid the flourish. Do not be afraid to be weak. Do not be ashamed to be tired. You look good when you’re tired. You look like you could go on forever. Now come into my arms. You are the image of my beauty.

via plucking at the heartstrings

misplaced

i have the look of a man who is not where
he should be.

(ever notice

.

how krill are never where they should be?)

my friend wants to take a torch to
the bottom of the sea but i tell him it’s impossible.  there is no

torch that can come down here (but oh!

there is!).  these depths are not
meant for everyone:

not all men can withstand the misrepresented weightlessness
of waves and whales

on the deep sea floor.

if you fall in love with an air sign

if you fall in love
with an air sign,
throw all caution
to the wind. 
you may be happily swept up
into her skies,
far above what you thought was true,
before falling right back
into your own depths,
taking some welcomed air pockets with you. 
they’ll tickle you
for a little while
as you tumble about in bed,
painting smiles on your face,
imploring you to remember what it was like
up in the clouds,
before they got
so heavy
they just
let you go.

she’ll inspire you to
reach for the heavens,
caressing your surface till it’s
closer to god
than it was without her. 
she will leave
when it is time
to leave
and not even your greatest wave
can grasp her,
though you can
outstretch your crests
to try.

if you fall in
love with an air sign,
know her heat follows only
the wind. 
you, however, once warmed,
will stay so for weeks. 
when you both find yourselves
hot,
the fog you make will be so thick
that no ship, no man,
not even god himself
could see you through it. 

till the wind blows
you will be the only two beings on this earth. 
till the wind blows
you will dance dances you never learned
as if you knew them from birth. 
till the wind blows
your heart will skip seventeen beats at a time.  
till the wind blows
you will forget that you already know
what happens next.

when the wind blows,
she’ll sometimes sneak
flirted glances down at you,
and your gaze will be steady,
already adoring her
the same way
you always
have.

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baby i want to catch your
…………travel bug, so
……..kiss me one more time
………………………before you go.

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if this life were a dream, how would you interpret it?
-harold klemp, living ECK master (loosely quoted)

x

the only difference between dreams and reality is
the only difference between dreams and reality.
god constructed one and we constructed the other
(and we are all god). 
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxyour blinkers are out and
you’re giving false signals to hapless young men
in bars.  ever notice the coincidence and wonder if
you’re inadvertently flirting in reality’s only dream?

sex & astrology: a couplet in twain

air signs make me flutter,
earth signs make me thump.
fire signs simply burn me out,
and water signs?  fuck that i don’t need any more goddamned moisture i moved to a desert for a reason.

my soapbox, or, between the two of us, we know exactly nothing

dear everyone who is not a conspiracy theorist:
our context is always bigger than we think.  you
think flourescent lightbulbs are a good idea?

actually, tesla was able to give the world free,
unlimited, clean energy, but there was no
money or fear in it.  you might think the sun

gave your father melanoma, but it was actually
the chemicals in the beef he ate for years that
converted the sun into morbidity.  the worst part

is that it was not an accident.  there has been
a cancer cure for as long as there’s been cancer.
when naessens found his own, his government exiled

him to canada, where not even canadians could
receive him.  there is no room in the secret
government’s inn.  the truth is everything we

know is a lie.  the ones who can actually feel the
truth are billed as quacks, left alone to practice
energy healing, and that’s no accident either.  a

woman asked me if i thought september 11 was
an inside job, and i said the smartest thing i’ve
ever said to anyone out loud:  “i don’t know.”

interior deteriorating

the aesthetics of skin flaked on the kitchen floor
is so 1961, when
it was acceptable to have
dandruff because proctor & gamble hadn’t
yet told you that you were repulsive and
flax seed oil
wasn’t yet cool.
the truth is, apple cider vinegar is cheaper
and better, and
if you’re not getting laid
it’s not your skin’s fault, it’s yours.

if you suffer from poor self-esteem, try
our new shampoo.  i personally
guarantee more sex or your money
back. 
call now and you’ll receive a
free head and shoulders condom with your purchase.
head and shoulders is the anti-dandruff shampoo
your penis can trust.

and so you try it but the cnoodm is
rbiebd in all the wnrog pcelas and

has a hloe in the tip taht
you ddin’t ntcioe
utinl it was too ltae and

yuor soon-to-be chlid is
gnoig to hvae the wosrt
darundff
ever.

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it’s a new day and the world starts sideways.
i’m confused only until i figure out who it is
who still sleeps next to me.  wait – no, i’m still
confused.  how did we get here and why are
neither of us wearing any pants?  i wake him
up to ask and he says, “halo, beer, popcorn,
oops.”  and it all makes sense, so we get up,
and try to spoon his girlfriend in the next
room until we’re sober enough to get coffee.

the caduceus, or, the triune evolutionary mechanism

you swing left you go crazy.  life’s
all bad.  nothin’s right in your mind.

for a little while you sit
in center, where you’s all
happy,

then, you
swing right you go crazy all over again.
when’s it ever gonna end, huh?
you feel like a goddamn monkey,
left, right, crazy, crazy, crazy.

and,
no matter how much you
evolve,
you just the same as you ever was.

the denver ski train, or, the birds and the bees have gone all mechanical

you know, it takes a lot of lubrication to get a train to leave the station.  but eventually, it always does, and it chugs merrily down its tracks for miles and miles.

and sometimes, when a train really loves its tracks, the tracks will lead the train into a beautiful mountain range, where there will be many tunnels.  the first tunnel will have a door, and the conductor will honk his horn, and if the tracks love the train too, the door will open.

then the train goes in the tunnel, and out the other side.  then it goes in the next tunnel, and out, and in and out, and in and out, exactly 28 times!

and then the 29th tunnel is the biggest tunnel of all, and at the end, all the people inside the train will get out, and, while they are shopping and skiing and playing in the snow, the train will fall asleep in the tracks’ arms.

to abort or not to abort: a haiku

space missions, babies,
applications in windows;
all the same to me.

complete exsanguination (of the very tiptopmost part of your pinky), or, a haiku for incompetent blood letters

who knew it would be
so hard to make oaths in blood?
let’s use spit instead.

how to hit on a cashier

when you ask the cashier for the
boulder veggie bowl
you have scant time to ask about her sign,
her hobbies, or whether or not she’d like
to see some death metal band with you.
better to take your punch card there
and back again, like going out your door
was the most dangerous thing you’ve
ever done in your life.  the leather jacket,
the look of a dark passenger beside you -
they’ll be sure to win her over once
you’ve got that thirteenth punch on
your loyalty card.

if the devil’s light comes to greet you, or, an exercise in self-exorcising

first, you will find your insides spinning outside you like guardian schools of fish.  your lungs will turn into makeshift coffins barely still afloat on the wake of a passing sea beast.  back in your room,  a shadowy figure will greet you by offering to kill all the spiders in your home if you’d just let him in, and you will refuse (by now, you’ve learned what violence against your benefactors does to your bones).  he will conjure the scent of burning frankincense, bringing you to bed with your favorite lover, but again you will refuse.  you will then find your thighs on the floor of your room and the fish will become hostile bees.  an illuminated figure will greet you and offer to ease your pain if you’d just let him in, and you will refuse (by now, you’ve learned the wisdom of your bones).  legions of light-footed imps will tingle up your spine and out your pores three times in all, and at last there will be no figure to greet you, nor deceit to get in your way.

internet porn in three acts

I.

jenna
jenni
tissue
—

II.

taylor
chasey
sock
—

III.

cytherea
cytherea
keyboard

getting fat in three acts

I.

twinkie
breasts
butt
—

II.

hoho
breasts
b  u  t  t

—
III.

big mac
breasts
B  U  T  T

water lust

the slow, rumble chase of a gut that needs more fire*
dear, put your hand in my belly and
take away the sins i’ve stored*

for there is no other way, (and no way to speak of
growing out of it out loud), there is no other

way back when my heart felt less like a lion
and more like a lamb* – you

could you have felt it then?*

could i have told you (no,*

evolution is a conversation
between you and god alone

.

.

—————————————————

*when heavy thunderclouds encumber the functions of your exit organs, encouraging a separation of god and man (leaving open an invitation for malevolent entities to stay a while – *though even the most vile of them can teach).

..................*could you feel the sea beast in me then?

.

……*see how the pelvis looks like a bear trap, or the jawbone of a shark?*

*dear, be careful how fast our bones can move.

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our moon rose faster, fell, waxed, and waned faster, till one
night it stood still, and didn’t move again. and i
played along to my favorite song on a bucket that had my name.
my
mate danced along to that song
for 90 minutes straight.  i thanked
the moon for prolonging that
song, stood up
and kissed
her
nape.

with the moon on full blast, and
her chin buried deep in the soul of my neck, i opened my
eyes and she was crone – i
opened again and she was young.
i kept them closed to see what would happen and she
showed me her favorite form of all.  i loved
her underneath a juniper tree – and never forgot
that scent.  to this
day i get three hugs in one -
a
lover,
maiden,
and
crone.

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stay a little late tonight, honey.
what you calling me honey for?
i just want you to stay a little longer tonight.
what for?
to fuck you on the floor after everyone is gone.
you can call me honey anytime, baby.
baby?
i know you got a beard and a hardon, but i can see inside you got chubby cheeks and dirty diapers.
you into that sort of thing?
ask me again after everyone’s gone.

it was the second best hug of my life and
i swear everyone left when she said i love
you over and over, like we’d been lovers
since high school.  her scent has been the
same since then, and she hasn’t aged at all.

the ten of us played cards together just
like the old days and i undressed her
every time she lost.  the old days weren’t
actually like this at all.

we’ve all found our bodies since then,
and we’ve made our habits into personalities,
giving voice to the kids we used to be.

some homemade brandy, some american
spirit blues, some backseat wheat pennies,

and then everyone left, except my high school lover and me.