Leonard Cohen Sang to Me at Dawn
The dream was thrilling, until
he stopped singing and,
like a Zen Master
presenting
a koan,
he declared, Song of praise.
I will think on that, I thought.
Then he added—in a voice clear as ringing bells, reflective as still water
—Sing! Sing a song of praise.
I tried to protest, in my sleep-dream
paralysis, tried to say: I. Can’t. Sing.
But I was not the woman who could
say no to Leonard Cohen. I started
weeping, told him that life and
world of late were unholy and unfit
for any song or praise, for reasons I chose
not to enumerate. In the dream he knew
anyway. Into the lifting light of the
morning, Leonard Cohen
vanished, leaving trails of irony, throaty laughter,
a smell like moldy feathers, and some eerie words
that echoed like a shameful scolding from a god
I used to know who loved the broken:
What else is there to sing of
if not the unholy holy?
As I awoke, I heard myself singing:
O planet spinning green and blue.
O mother mine, her touch.
O fathers, in their time.
O muscles in my legs and arms.
O lovers and children.
O ancestors, friends.
O nurse.
O holy ones.
All who will have carried me
To the finish line.
Ahead of time,
I sing your praises.
Connie Johnstone was found by poetry writing in 2021. In her other lives she wrote a novel, The Legend of Olivia Cosmos Montevideo (Atlantic Monthly Press); edited an anthology, I’ve Always Meant to Tell You (Pocket Books); was professor of English and chair of creative writing at American River College; changed careers and was a Hospice Chaplain with Kaiser Permanente, used Narrative Therapy, became a witness to others’ stories. Her degrees include MFA from Bennington College and MTS from Harvard Divinity School. She lives and writes in Davis, California.
Amethyst Review 