saying, “Whatever you give me, I seem to need
so much more.”
Then she pointed at me where I kneeled on her floor,
she said, “Don’t try to use me or slyly refuse me,
just win me or lose me,
it is this that the darkness is for.”
I cried, “Oh, Lady Midnight, I fear that you grow old,
the stars eat your body and the wind makes you cold.”
“If we cry now,” she said, “it will just be ignored.”
So I walked through the morning, sweet early morning,
I could hear my lady calling,
“You’ve won me, you’ve won me, my lord,
you’ve won me, you’ve won me, my lord,
yes, you’ve won me, you’ve won me, my lord,
ah, you’ve won me, you’ve won me, my lord,
ah, you’ve won me, you’ve won me, my lord.”
This deceptively simple song was included on Songs From A Room (1969). At first sight, it appears to be the simple record of a seduction. On closer reading, it is clearly much more complex than that. Who is Lady Midnight? Is she a real woman or a symbol? Does she represent “the dark night of the soul” or is she Death itself? And does the “sweet early morning” through which the singer walks signify a victory over the darkness or a surrender to it? Reader, judge for yourself.
Last Year’s Man
The rain falls down on last year’s man,
that’s a jew’s harp on the table,
that’s a crayon in his hand.
And the corners of the blueprint are ruined since they rolled
far past the stems of thumbtacks
that still throw shadows on the wood.
And the skylight is like skin for a drum I’ll never mend
and all the rain falls down amen
on the works of last year’s man.
I met a lady, she was playing with her soldiers in the dark
oh one by one she had to tell them
that her name was Joan of Arc.
I was in that army, yes I stayed a little while;
I want to thank you, Joan of Arc,
for treating me so well.
And though I wear a uniform I was not born to fight;
all these wounded boys you lie beside,
goodnight, my friends, goodnight.
I came upon a wedding that old families had contrived;
Bethlehem the bridegroom,
Babylon the bride.
Great Babylon was naked, oh she stood there trembling for me,
and Bethlehem inflamed us both
like the shy one at some orgy.
And when we fell together all our flesh was like a veil
that I had to draw aside to see
the serpent eat its tail.
Some women wait for Jesus, and some women wait for Cain
so I hang upon my altar
and I hoist my axe again.
And I take the one who finds me back to where it all began
when Jesus was the honeymoon
and Cain was just the man.
And we read from pleasant Bibles that are bound in
blood and skin
that the wilderness is gathering
all its children back again.
The rain falls down on last year’s man,
an hour has gone by
and he has not moved his hand.
But everything will happen if he only gives the word;
the lovers will rise up
and the mountains touch the ground.
But the skylight is like skin for a drum I’ll never mend
and all the rain falls down amen
on the works of last year’s man.
Included on Songs Of Love And Hate (1971), this song is an example of a curious phenomenon that often occurs in Cohen’s work – the use of overtly religious phraseology and references (as here Bethlehem, Babylon, Jesus and Cain) in songs with a secular theme, and the avoidance of them in songs with a spiritual or religious theme.
Leaving Green Sleeves
Alas, my love, you did me wrong,
to cast me out discourteously,
for I have loved you so long,
delighting in your very company.
Now if you intend to show me disdain,
don’t you know it all the more enraptures me,
for even so I still remain your lover in captivity.
Green sleeves, you’re all alone,
the leaves have fallen, the men have gone.
Green sleeves, there’s no one home,
not even the Lady Green Sleeves
I sang my songs, I told my lies,
to lie between your matchless thighs.
And ain’t it fine, ain’t it wild
to finally end our exercise
Then I saw you naked in the early dawn,
oh, I hoped you would be someone new.
I reached for you but you were gone,
so lady I’m going too.
Green sleeves, you’re all alone ...
Green sleeves, you’re all alone,
the leaves have fallen, the men have all gone home.
Green sleeves, it’s so easily done,
leaving the Lady Green Sleeves.
This song, from New Skin For The Old Ceremony (1974), contains echoes, both in its melody and in the consciously archaic language with which it opens, of the famous sixteenth-century air ‘Greensleeves’, allegedly written by King Henry VIII and certainly written by a member of his court.
Light As The Breeze
She stands before you naked
you can see it, you can taste it,
and she comes to you light as the breeze.
Now you can drink it or you can nurse it,
it don’t matter how you worship
as long as you’re
down on your knees.
So I knelt there at the delta,
at the alpha and the omega,
at the cradle of the river and the seas.
And like a blessing come from heaven
for something like a second
I was healed and my heart
was at ease.
O baby I waited
so long for your kiss
for something to happen,
oh something like this.
And you’re weak and you’re harmless
and you’re sleeping in your harness
and the wind going wild
in the trees,
and it ain’t exactly prison
but you’ll never be forgiven
for whatever you’ve done
with the keys.
O baby I waited ...
It’s dark now and it’s snowing
O my love I must be going,
The river has started to freeze.
And I’m sick of pretending
I’m broken from bending
I’ve lived too long on my knees.
Then she dances so graceful
and your heart’s hard and hateful
and she’s naked
but that’s just a tease.
And you turn in disgust
from your hatred and from your love
and she comes to you
light as the breeze.
O baby I waited ...
There’s blood on every bracelet
you can see it, you can taste it,
and it’s Please baby
please baby please.
And she says, Drink deeply, pilgrim
but don’t forget there’s still a woman
beneath this
resplendent chemise.
So I
