leonard cohen: 43 (from book of mercy)

43.


Holy is your name, holy is your work, holy are the days that return to you. Holy are the years that you uncover. Holy are the hands that are raised to you, and the weeping that is wept to you. Holy is the fire between your will and ours, in which we are refined. Holy is that which is unredeemed, covered with your patience. Holy are the souls lost in your unnaming. Holy, and shining with a great light, is every living thing, established in this world and covered with time, until your name is praised forever.

Cohen, Leonard. "43" Book of Mercy. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart Inc, 1984.

leonard cohen: 42 (from book of mercy)

42.


It is to you I turn, the table stands on tiptoe. Every object leaps to its place. The closed book rises on its thousand pages and my wakefulness rejoices. I turn to you, my song in the house of night, my shield against the quarrels. I turn to you, who unifies the upward heart. Your name is the foundation of the night. The Accuser, with his thousand voices, stands in the place you are not named. Blessed is the name that holds this house in the firmness of mercy, and binds this song to the rock.

Cohen, Leonard. "42" Book of Mercy. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart Inc, 1984.

leonard cohen: (from the book of mercy)

39.


From you alone to you alone, everlasting to everlasting, all that is not you is suffering, all that is not you is solitude rehearsing the arguments of loss. All that is not you is the man collapsing against his own forehead, and the forehead crushes him. All that is not you goes out and out, gathering the voices of revenge, harvesting lost triumphs far from the real and necessary defeat. It is to you I speak, solitude to unity, failure to mercy, and loss to the light. It is you I welcome here, coming through the coarse glory of my imagination, to this very night, to this very couch, to this very darkness. Grant me a forgiving sleep, and rest my enemy.


Cohen, Leonard. "39" Book of Mercy. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart Inc, 1984.

david helwig: for edward hicks

At least a hundred times,
here's the marvel,
a hundred times
as you travelled the green country,
you had to put away your sign painting
or turn from preaching the inner light
to the one picture,
the stiff animals gentle,
children among them,
men good.


You must have had violent hands
to have needed so often,
a hundred times at least,
the magic, the talisman,
the peaceable kingdom
made by your hands.

Helwig, David. "For Edward Hicks" The New Oxford Book of Canadian Verse in English. Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1982.

anne compton: even now

Even now when muscles slacken and bones thin out
-- and why do they, if not to let in light -- the body opens


to cordial air, the courtesy of trees, fork-tailed swallows
in flight, their joints and ligaments ours. Atavistic us.


In early angel state, eye and ear migrate. They're at our elbow.
Down on our knees. The world's infolded in every limb.


In September's stirabout, what was enough, is not enough: 
Frost at night and summertime by day, the air is appetite.


The stipple tongue's all over taste. The lucent skin is lavish.


Turns out that old adage about angels on a pin
refers to the body: How the five jig and sing in every cell.


Up out of the year's sleep, the body divines dispersal.
What's next is near, and already we are here in afterthought.


Compton, Anne. "Even Now" The Best Canadian Poetry in English. Toronto: Tightrope Books, 2009.