Siren
When you feel like talking, tell
these stories.
In fine antique gallery paintings,
even those depicting angels,
a woman is seen gliding over the water
dressed in such a flimsy, evening-type dress
you will forget what happened,
if you capture her.
From somewhere nearby,
hear low singing
sounds like some fairy tales.
Refuse to follow.
Don’t look back.
Hunt for something luminescent—
the phenomenon of fireflies,
a flirtation
through a tangle of vines;
cold light
like a mirror,
calm as the water
a ways offshore—
absolutely true.
Found poem key: all phrases are non-contiguous and are taken unaltered from “Nancy Drew: The Secret of Mirror Bay,” Carolyn Keene, Grosset & Dunlap, NY, 1972. Page references per line follow: Line 1: p.65; Line 2: p.107; Line 3 and 4: p. 95 – one phrase split into two lines; Line 5: p. 2; Line 6: p.138; Line 7: p. 8; Line 8: p.73; Line 9: p. 24; Line 10: p.65; Line 11: p.45; Line 12: p.60; Line 13: p.141; Line 14: p.22; Line 15: p.151; Line 16: p.61; Line 17: p.78; Line 18: p.157; Line 19: p.100; Line 20: p.23; Line 21:p.120; Line 22: p.105
In honour of Leonard Cohen–“After ignorance, blessings” by A. Garnett Weiss republished
When Silver Birch Press (SBP) featured Garnet Weiss’s “After ignorance, blessings” in its Same Name Series, it gave her the chance to mark how as an undergrad she ‘bumped’ into Leonard Cohen at university and how she evolved into a devoted fan. Here is the link:https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/01/21/after-ignorance-blessings-poem-by-a-garnett-weiss-same-name-poetry-and-prose-series/
Given his passing yesterday at 82 and having seen a clip from the media conference at the September release of his last CD where he explained he was ready for death but rather would ‘live’ forever (and he will), it feels appropriate to republish that poem in his honour here.
After ignorance, blessings
Without much prompting, I return to that moment fifty years ago,
while we waited together for a book on reserve at college.
The librarian bellowed out my last name.
We both stepped forward, lightly bumping hips.
Shy as a virgin, I felt heat rush to my face
as the man at the desk glared through thick lenses.
“Leonard,” he harrumphed, dismissing me.
Just then, I realized who you were.
So did the other undergrads, the spectator chorus,
who stared as though it was my fault to carry
the same family name.
I bowed my head, rejoined their line.
Even as poems and songs brought you more fame,
I didn’t become a fan, though I recognized
some tunes, knew bits of lyrics from the CDs
my mother listened to every day till she died.
But after you had to come down from the mountain
‘cause someone had stolen away with your wealth,
after you started to tour, that’s when I fell for you.
I saw you perform live a first time, then again, and again,
just to hear you sing of love and loss and longing in that voice,
its low-growl purr seductive as the melodies that play in my mind.
Which is how I’ve come to regret having no kinship with you
either in blood or in the way you make your music turn words
into a benediction.
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