Suzanne

By Leonard Cohen

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.

Diving into the Wreck

By Adrienne Rich

First having read the book of myths,

And loaded the camera,

And checked the edge of the knife-blade,

I put on

The body-armor of black rubber

The absurd flippers

The grave and awkward mask.

I am having to do this

Not like Cousteau with his

Assiduous team

Aboard the sun-flooded schooner

But here alone.

There is a ladder.

The ladder is always there

hanging innocently

close to the side of the schooner.

We know what it is for,

we who have used it.

Otherwise

it’s a piece of maritime floss

Some sundry equipment.

I go down.

Rung after rung and still

the oxygen immerses me

the blue light

the clear atoms

of our human air.

I go down.

My flippers cripple me,

I crawl like an insect down the ladder

and there is no one

to tell me when the ocean

will begin.

First the air is blue and then

it is bluer and then green and then

black I am blacking out and yet

my mask is powerful

it pumps my blood with power

the sea is another story

the sea is not a question of power

I have to learn alone

to turn without force

in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget

what I came for

among so many who have always

lived here

swaying their crenellated fans

between the reefs

and besides

you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.

the words are purposes.

the words are maps.

I came to see the damage that was done

and the treasures that prevail.

I stroke the beam of my lamp

slowly along the flank

of something more permanent

than fish or weed

the thing I came for:

the wreck and not the story of the wreck

the thing itself and not the myth

the drowned face always staring

toward the sun

the evidence of damage

worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty

the ribs of the disaster

curving their assertion

among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.

And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair

streams black, the merman in his armored body

We circle silently

about the wreck

we dive into the hold.

I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes

whose breasts still bear the stress

whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies

obscurely inside barrels

half-wedged and left to rot

we are the half-destroyed instruments

that once held to a course

the water-eaten log

the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are

by cowardice or courage

the one who find our way

back to this scene

carrying a knife, a camera

a book of myths

in which

our names do not appear.

Stephanie's Ark 

By Hank Edson

There was this party

Of a family, a good Irish Catholic family

With six children and grandparents

And then the children had children

And even some of the children’s children had children

And there were nephews and aunts and cousins

And heaven knows what kinds of relations...

And their dates, of course.

Or their wives or their brothers-in-law or fiancés

And friends;

Some were not really not even remotely “family,” just total strangers

Who were adopted and for the party, perhaps for good,

Actually made family

And all of these people numbered about 250.

And everyone was drunk.

It was on the shore of the Delaware River

With a band, a picnic, dancing,

And people were really carried away.

One man passed out and was tied to the base of a tree by his feet

So that he was in the odd position of hanging right side up

By his toes.

And when he woke up, he tried to walk

And fell down helpless and fuming:

“NO ONE TIES ME TO A TREE!”

And everyone laughed.

There was a contest to see who could hit a golf ball

All the way across the river.

One of the family, a brother or something

Was a trophy winner

And two others, also brothers? Were good

But everyone else, and that’s a lot,

Was not good at all, just beginners, just playing.

And one pregnant lady was so drunk

She said she couldn’t play because she couldn’t see the ball

In front of her.

She was laughing, hysterical

And everyone was so relaxed;

It was great fun.

And I was a young woman, an exchange student from West Germany.

Copyright © Hank Edson 2009

Drops of Jupiter 

By Pat Monahan

Now that she’s back in the atmosphere
With drops of Jupiter in her hair,
She acts like summer and walks like rain
Reminds me that there’s time to change,

Since the return from her stay on the moon
She listens like spring and she talks like June,

Tell me did you sail across the sun
Did you make it to the milky way

To see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated

Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me

While you were looking for yourself out there

Now that she’s back from that soul vacation
Tracing her way through the constellation,
She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo
Reminds me that there’s time to grow,
Now that she’s back in the atmosphere
I’m afraid that she might think of me as plain ol’ jane
Told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land

Tell me did the wind sweep you off your feet
Did you finally get the chance to dance

Along the light of day
And head back to the milky way

And tell me, did venus blow your mind
Was it everything you wanted to find
And did you miss me

While you were looking for yourself out there

Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken
Your best friend always sticking up for you

Even when I know you’re wrong
Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance

Five-hour phone conversation
The best soy latte that you ever had . . . and me

Tell me did the wind sweep you off your feet
Did you finally get the chance to dance

Along the light of day
And head back toward the milky way

Tell me did you sail across the sun
Did you make it to the milky way

To see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated

Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me

While you were looking for yourself out there... 

  
On First Looking into
  
Chapman’s Homer

By John Keats

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific -and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise -
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.