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.

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.

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

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... 

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.

]]>http://worldwhereilive.squarespace.com/the-world-where-i-live/rss-comments-entry-1709873.xmlIn The World Where I LiveWed, 05 Mar 2008 04:54:46 +0000http://worldwhereilive.squarespace.com/the-world-where-i-live/2008/3/5/inspirational-transports.html162352:1527272:1638604  
Another World

By Hank Edson

If from birth to hear music, one were transported:
Another world; if from life, from the conception
One were surrounded in melody
As the only expression;
If music hung in the air, like notes of oxygen,
Their breath to mean survival?

If until death even in your soul you could never
Speak no, read no, hear no evil
But only paint only one image,
One thousand words for all;
If your humanity sat perched upon an easel,
You would inspire.

If in time your dance should lose its sense of balance,
Effortlessly you may float in the magnitudes higher
Over life, through the heavens
Of creation's desire;
If you unburden your thoughts of time's tightwire:
Oh, Angelic Vision!

Copyright © Hank Edson 2008

  

By Billy Joel

Slow down, you crazy child.
You're so ambitious for a juvenile,
               But then if you're so smart, 
               Tell me, why are you still 
               So afraid?
   
Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?
You better cool it off before you burn it out.
               You got so much to do 
               And only so many hours 
               In a day.
    
But you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want or you can just get old.
               You're gonna kick off! 
               Before you even get 
               Halfway through.
    
When will you realize...
                                                Vienna waits for you.

     
Slow down.  You're doing fine.
You can't be everything you wanna be before your time.
               Although it's so romantic 
               On the borderline tonight—
               Tonight!
   
Too bad, but it's the life you lead:
You're so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need.
               Though you can see when you're wrong, 
               You know you can't always see when you're right—
               You're right!
     
You got your passion, you got your pride,
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
               Dream on! 
               But don't imagine they'll 
               All come true.
   
When will you realize...
                                                Vienna waits for you.
   
Slow down, you crazy child.
Take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while.
               It's alright! 
               You can afford to lose 
               A day or two.
   
When will you realize...
                                                Vienna waits for you.
  
And you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want or you can just get old.
               You're gonna kick off! 
               Before you even get 
               Halfway through.
   
Why don't you realize...
                                                Vienna waits for you.
  
When will you realize...
                                                Vienna waits for you.

Scene-The Master-trademen’s Parlour at the Old Ship Inn, Casterbridge.  Evening.

“Old Norbert with the flat blue cap—
          A German said to be—
Why let your pipe die on your lap,
          Your eyes blink absently?”

—“Ah!...Well, I had thought ‘til my cheek was wet
          Of my mother-her voice and mien
When she used to sing and pirouette,
          And tap the tambourine

“To the march that yon street-fiddler plies:
          She told me ‘twas the same
She’d heard from the trumpets, when the Allies
          Burst on her home like flame.

“My father was one of the German Hussars,
          My mother of Leipzig; but he
Being quartered here, fetched her at close of the wars,
          And a Wessex lad reared me.

“And as I grew up, again and again
          She’d tell, after trilling that air,
Of her youth, and the battles on Leipzig plain
          And of all that was suffered there!...

“—‘Twas a time of alarms.  Three Chiefs-at-arms
          Combined them to crush One,
And by numbers’ might, for in equal fight
          He stood the matched of none.

“Carl Schwarzenberg was of the plot,
          And Blücher, prompt and prow,
And Jean the Crown-Prince Bernadotte:
          Buonaparte was the foe.

“City and plain had felt his reign
          From the North to the Middle Sea,
And he’d now sat down in the noble town
          Of the King of Saxony.

“October’s deep dew its wet gossamer threw
          Upon Leipzig’s lawns, leaf-strewn,
Where lately each fair avenue
          Wrought shade for summer noon.

“To westward two dull rivers crept 
          Through miles of marsh and slough,
Whereover a streak of whiteness swept—
          The Bridge of Lindenau.

“Hard by, in the City, the One, care-tossed,
          Sat pondering his shrunken power;
And without the walls the hemming host
          Waxed denser every hour.

“He had speech that night on the morrow’s designs 
          With his chiefs by the bivouac fire,
While the belt of flames from the enemy’s lines
          Flamed nigher him yet and nigher.

“Three rockets then from the girdling trine
          Told, ‘Ready!’ As they rose
Their flashes seemed his Judgment-Sign
          For bleeding Europe’s woes.

“’Twas seen how the French watch-fires that night
          Glowed still and steadily;
And the Three rejoiced, for they read in the sight
          That the One disdained to flee….

“—Five hundred guns began the affray
          On next day morn at nine;
Such mad and mangling cannon-play
          Had never torn human line.

“Around the town three battles beat,
          Contracting like a gin;
As nearer marched the million feet 
          Of columns closing in.

“The first battle knighted on the low Southern side;
          The second by the Western way;
The nearing of the third on the North was heard;
          —The French held all at bay.

“Against the first band did the Emperor stand;
          Against the second stood Ney;
Marmont against the third gave the order-word:
          —Thus raged it throughout the day.

“Fifty thousand sturdy souls on those trampled plains and knolls,
          Who met the dawn hopefully,
And were lotted their shares in a quarrel not theirs,
          Dropt then in their agony.

“‘O,” the old folks said, ‘ye Preachers stern!
          O so-called Christian time!
When will men’s swords to ploughshares turn?
          When come the promised prime/…

“—The clash of horse and man which that day began,
          Closed not as evening wore;
And the morrow’s armies, rear and van,
          Still mustered more and more.

“From the City towers the Confederate Powers
          Were eyed in glittering lines,
And up from the vast a murmuring passed
          As from a wood of pines.

“‘’Tis well to cover a feeble skill
          By numbers’ might!’ scoffed He;
‘But give me a third of their strength, I’d fill
          Half Hell with their soldiery!’

“All that day raged the war they waged,
          And again dumb night held reign,
Save that ever upspread from the dank deathbed
          A miles-wide pant of pain.

“Hard had striven brave Ney, the true Bertrand,
          Victgor, and Augereau,
Bold Poniatowki, and Lauriston,
          To stay their overthrow;

“But, as in the dream of one sick to death
          There comes a narrowing room
That pens him, body and limbs and breath,
          To wait a hideous doom,

“So to Napoleon, in the hush
          That held the town and towers
Through these dire nights, a creeping crush
          Seemed borne in with the hours.

“One road to the rearward, and but one,
          Did fitful Chance allow;
‘Twas where the Pleiss’ and Elster run—
          The Bridge of Lindenau.

“The nineteenth dawned.  Down street and Platz
          The wasted French sank back,
Stretching long lines across the Flats
          And on the bridgeway track:

“When there surged on the sky an earthen wave,
          And stones, and men, as though
Some rebel churchyard crew updrave
          Their sepulchers from below.

“To Heaven is blown Bridge Lindenau;
          Wrecked regiments reel therefrom;
And rank and file in masses plough
          The sullen Elster-Strom.

“A gulf was Lindenau; and dead
          Were fifties, hundreds, tens;
And every current rippled red
          With Marshal’s blood and men’s.

“The smart Macdonald swam therein,
          And barely won the verge;
Bold Poniatowki plunged him in
          Never to re-emerge.

“Then strayed the strife.  The remnants wound
          Their Rhineward way pell-mell;
And thus did Leipzig City sound
          An Empire’s passing bell;

“While in cavalcade, with band and blade,
          Came Marshals, Princes, Kings;
And the town was theirs… Ay, as simple maid,
          My mother saw these things!

“And whenever those notes in the street begin
          I recall her, and that far scene,
And her acting of how the allies marched in,
          And her tap of the tambourine!”

By Hank Edson

A stranger here, I know not where they are,
I know not where they call from, but I hear
Their startling voices shaking in the air,
Arriving all at once from everywhere
Like disconcerting angels, loud and clear,
Straightening me up, seated in my chair.
My heart fills with the present, light and bare~ 
This annunciation within my ear:
Receive and share, we are near and yet far.

Copyright © Hank Edson 2008

By Van Morrison

I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
  
I have seen without perceiving
I have been another man
Let me pierce the realm of glamour
So I know just what I am
                 
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
                 
Feel the angel of the present
In the mighty crystal fire
Lift me up consume my darkness
Let me travel even higher
             
I’m a dweller on the threshold
As I cross the burning ground
Let me go down to the water
Watch the great illusion drown
              
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
               
I’m gonna turn and face the music
The music of the spheres
Lift me up consume my darkness
When the midnight disappears
             
I will walk out of the darkness
And Ill walk into the light
And Ill sing the song of ages
And the dawn will end the night
               
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
               
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I cross some burning ground
And Ill go down to the water
Let the great illusion drown
            
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
           
I’m a dweller on the threshold
Dweller on the threshold
I’m a dweller on the threshold
I’m a dweller on the threshold