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Leonard Cohen - Let Us Compare Mythologies

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Contents
Original edition copyright Leonard Cohen 1956 This book was first published by - photo 1
Original edition copyright Leonard Cohen 1956 This book was first published by - photo 2
Original edition copyright Leonard Cohen, 1956 This book was first published by Contact Press in 1956. First McClelland & Stewart edition 1969. This edition 2018. All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisheror, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agencyis an infringement of the copyright law. McClelland & Stewart and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House Canada Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Cohen, Leonard, 1934-2016, author Let us compare mythologies / Leonard Cohen.

Originally published: Montreal: Contact Press, 1956. Poems. Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN 9780771024535 (softcover).ISBN 9780771024542 (EPUB) I. Title. PS8505.O22L4 2018 C811.54 C2018-901612-4 C2018-901613-2 Book design by Five Seventeen McClelland & Stewart, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

v532 a To the memory of my father Nathan B Cohen Contents This title - photo 3
v5.3.2 a To the memory of my father Nathan B.

Cohen

Contents
This title contains long lines of poetry. The line of characters below indicates approximately the longest line in the text: or a Nova Scotian fleeing from the rocks and preachers To most accurately reproduce the layout of the text on the printed page, you may choose to decrease the size of the text on your viewer and/or change the orientation of your screen until the above line of characters fits on a single line. This may not be possible on all e-reading devices. Viewing this title at a higher than optimal text size or on a screen too small to accommodate the longest lines in the text will alter the reading experience and may cause single lines of some poems to display as multiple lines of text. If this occurs, the turn of the line will be marked with a shallow indent. All right he said.

Listen, and read again, but only one stanza this time and closed the book and laid it on the table. She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, McCaslin said: Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair. Hes talking about a girl, he said. He had to talk about something, McCaslin said. The Bear, by William Faulkner

ELEGY
Do not look for him In brittle mountain streams: They are too cold for any god; And do not examine the angry rivers For shreds of his soft body Or turn the shore stones for his blood; But in the warm salt ocean He is descending through cliffs Of slow green water And the hovering coloured fish Kiss his snow-bruised body And build their secret nests In his fluttering winding-sheet.
FOR WILF AND HIS HOUSE
When young the Christians told me how we pinned Jesus like a lovely butterfly against the wood, and I wept beside paintings of Calvary at velvet wounds and delicate twisted feet.

But he could not hang softly long, your fighters so proud with bugles, bending flowers with their silver stain, and when I faced the Ark for counting, trembling underneath the burning oil, the meadow of running flesh turned sour and I kissed away my gentle teachers, warned my younger brothers. Among the young and turning-great of the large nations, innocent of the spiked wish and the bright crusade, there I could sing my heathen tears between the summersaults and chestnut battles, love the distant saint who fed his arm to flies, mourn the crushed ant and despise the reason of the heel. Raging and weeping are left on the early road. Now each in his holy hill the glittering and hurting days are almost done. Then let us compare mythologies.

THE SONG OF THE HELLENIST
For R.K.Those unshadowed figures, rounded lines of menwho kneel by curling waves, amused by ornate birdsIf that had been the ruling way,I would have grown long hairs for the corners of mymouth O cities of the Decapolis across the Jordan, you are too great; our young men love you, and men in high places have caused gymnasiums to be built in Jerusalem.
THE SONG OF THE HELLENIST
For R.K.Those unshadowed figures, rounded lines of menwho kneel by curling waves, amused by ornate birdsIf that had been the ruling way,I would have grown long hairs for the corners of mymouth O cities of the Decapolis across the Jordan, you are too great; our young men love you, and men in high places have caused gymnasiums to be built in Jerusalem.

I tell you, my people, the statues are too tall. Beside them we are small and ugly, blemishes on the pedestal. My name is Theodotus, do not call me Jonathan. My name is Dositheus, do not call me Nathaniel. Call us Alexander, Demetrius, Nicanor Have you seen my landsmen in the museums, the brilliant scholars with the dirty fingernails, standing before the marble gods, underneath the lot? Among straight noses, natural and carved, I have said my clever things thought out before; jested on the Protocols, the cause of war, quoted Bleistein with a Cigar. And in the salon that holds the city in its great window, in the salon among the Herrenmenschen, among the close-haired youth, I made them laugh when the child came in: Come I need you for a Passover Cake.

And I have touched their tall clean women, thinking somehow they are unclean, as scaleless fish. They have smiled quietly at me, and with their friends I wonder what they see. O cities of the Decapolis, call us Alexander, Demetrius, Nicanor Dark women, soon I will not love you. My children will boast of their ancestors at Marathon and under the walls of Troy, and Athens, my chiefest joy O call me Alexander, Demetrius, Nicanor

PRAYER FOR MESSIAH
His blood on my arm is warm as a bird his heart in my hand is heavy as lead his eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love O send out the raven ahead of the dove His life in my mouth is less than a man his death on my breast is harder than stone his eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love O send out the raven ahead of the dove O send out the raven ahead of the dove O sing from your chains where youre chained in a cave your eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love your blood in my ballad collapses the grave O sing from your chains where youre chained in a cave your eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love your heart in my hand is heavy as lead your blood on my arm is warm as a bird O break from your branches a green branch of love after the raven has died for the dove
RITES
Bearing gifts of flowers and sweet nuts the family came to watch the eldest son, my father; and stood about his bed while he lay on a blood-sopped pillow, his heart half rotted and his throat dry with regret. And it seemed so obvious, the smell so present, quite so necessary, but my uncles prophesied wildly, promising life like frantic oracles; and they only stopped in the morning, after he had died and I had begun to shout.
REDEDICATION
A painful rededication, this Spring, like the building of cathedrals between wars, and masons at decayed walls; and we are almost too tired to begin again with miracles and leaves and lingering on steps in sudden sun; tired by the way isolated drifts lie melting, like hulks of large fish rotting far upbeach; the disinterested scrape of shovels collecting sand from sidewalks, destroying streams; and school-children in streetcars, staring out, astonished.
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