I don’t know what the hunters gave,
But all the money of the sun
Falling between the shadows of your face
In yellow coin
Could not bribe away the scorn
Which fastens up your mouth.
288
This Is War
There is no one
to show these poems to
Do not call a friend to witness
what you must do alone
These are my ashes
I do not intend to save you any work
by keeping silent
You are not yet as strong as I am
You believe me
but I do not believe you
This is war
You are here to be destroyed
289
The Only Poem
This is the only poem
I can read
I am the only one
who can write it
I didn't kill myself
when things went wrong
I didn't turn
to drugs or teaching
I tried to sleep
but when I couldn't sleep
I learned to write
I learned to write
what might be read
one nights like this
by one like me
290
Gift
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
291
The Wrong Man
They locked up a man
who wanted to rule the world
The fools
They locked up the wrong man
292
Mission
I've worked at my work
I've slept at my sleep
I've died at my death
And now I can leave
Leave what is needed
And leave what is full
Need in the Spirit
And need in the Hole
Beloved, I'm yours
As I've always been
From marrow to pore
From longing to skin
Now that my mission
Has come to its end:
Pray I'm forgiven
The life that I've led
The Body I chased
It chased me as well
My longing's a place
My dying a sail
293
The Lovesick Monk
I shaved my head
I put on robes
I sleep in the corner of a cabin
sixty-five hundred feet up a mountain
It's dismal here
The only thing I don't need
is a comb
- Mt. Baldy, 1997
294
You'd Sing Too
You'd sing too
if you found yourself
in a place like this
You wouldn't worry about
whether you were as good
as Ray Charles or Edith Piaf
You'd sing
You'd sing
not for yourself
but to make a self
out of the old food
rotting in the astral bowel
and the loveless thud
of your own breathing
You'd become a singer
faster than it takes
to hate a rival's charm
and you'd sing, darling
you'd sing too
295
The Wind Moves
The wind moves
the palm trees
and the fringes o
f the beach umbrellas
The children go down
the waterslide
The grey Arabian Sea
slaps its soiled lace underwear
on the dirty flats
The wind moves everything
and then stops
but my pen
keeps on writing
by itself
Dear Roshi
I am dead now
I died before you
just as you predicted
in the early 70s
296
I Wrote For Love
I wrote for love.
Then I wrote for money.
With someone like me
it's the same thing.
297
The Sweetest Little Song
You go your way
I'll go your way too
298
Who Do You Really Remember
My father died when I was nine;
my mother when I was forty-six.
In between, my dog and several friends.
Recently, more friends,
real friends,
uncles and aunts,
many acquaintances.
And then there's Sheila.
She said, Don't be a jerk, Len.
Take your desire seriously.
She died not long after
we were fifteen.
299
The Moon
The moon is outside.
I saw the great uncomplicated thing
when I went to take a leak just now.
I should have looked at it longer.
I am a poor lover of the moon.
I see it all at once and that's it
for me and the moon.
300
On the path
for C.C.
On the path of loneliness
I came to the place of song
and tarried there
for half my life
Now I leave my guitar
and my keyboards
my friends and s-x companions
and I stumble out again
on the path of loneliness
I am old but I have no regrets
not one
even though I am angry and alone
and filled with fear and desire
Bend down to me
from your mist and vines
O high one, long-fingered
and deep-seeing
Bend down to this sack of poison
and rotting teeth
and press your lips
to the light of my heart
301
I Am Dying
I am dying
because you have not
died for me
and the world
still loves you.
I wirte this because I know
that your kisses
are born blind
on the songs that touch you.
I don't want a purpose
in your life
I want to be lost among
your thoughts
the way you listen to New York City
when you fall asleep.
302
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From A Notebook
Hotel de France 1968
341
Suzanne
342
343
Joan Of Arc
344
345
346
The Old Revolution
347
The Stranger Song
348
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350
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Field Commander Cohen
353
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Closing Time
358
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360
361
Hallelujah
362
Biography
One of the most fascinating and enigmatic -- if not the most successful -- singer/songwriters
of the late '60s, Leonard Cohen has retained an audience across four decades of music-
making interrupted by various digressions into personal and creative exploration, all of
which have only added to the mystique surrounding him. Second only to Bob Dylan (and
perhaps Paul Simon), he commands the attention of critics
