Leonard Cohen's Book of LongingAside from being a creative genius in a multitude of artistic disciplines, Leonard Cohen is an old man. And with age comes wisdom. Take for example, this stanza from "Better."better than artis repulsive artwhich demonstratesbetter than scripturethe tiny measureof your improvementNo dummy, this guy. But then, you knew that already.Twenty years in the making, Book of Longing [Ecco/HarperCollins]was written on southern California's Mount Baldy and in Los Angeles, Montreal and Mumbai. The author of twelve books and seventeen albums of music, this collection of poems follows his highly acclaimed 1984 publication, Book of Mercy. Containing his own wonderful, playful and provocative line drawings, Book of Longing is a celebration of one of contemporary times' best and truest flesh-and-blood examples of unlimited artistic expression.Leonard Cohen's poetry is loaded with Bukowski's truth and simple statements, but without the ugliness. There are tons of love poems, reflections on drinking and God (oops, I mean "G-d"--he's Jewish, you know), loneliness, philosophy, aging, friendships, food, sober highs, celebrations of the body and sex, sex, sex. But it's all done with manners--a classiness Bukowski never knew-- a masculine sensitivity that's never maudlin, and a ripe, heavy, juice-laden life that few words in print have ever had the strength to carry.There are some moments when Cohen veers into classical meter and rhyme, but he pulls it off with the smart currency of the lyric, and yet somehow, even in the hipness, he can still manage to make the reader tear up:And fragrant is the thought of youThe file on you completeExcept what we forgot to doA thousand kisses deepThere is unresolved anger and hurt:I could not killthe way you killI could not hateI tried, I failedandFare thee well my nightingaleI lived but to be near youThough you are singing somewhere stillI can no longer hear youBut mostly, in all its spiritual, physical and emotional forms, there is truth:This is itI'm not coming after youI'm going to lie down for half an hourThis is itI'm not going downon your memoryI'm not rubbing my face in it anymoreI'm going to yawnI'm going to stretchI'm going to put a knitting needleup my noseand poke out my brainI don't want to love youfor the rest of my lifeI want your skinto fall off my skinI want my clampto release your clampI don't want to livewith this tongue hanging outand another filthy songin the placeof my baseball batThis is itI'm going to sleep now darlingDon't try to stop meI'm going to sleepI'll have a smooth faceand I'm going to droolI'll be asleepwhether you love me or notThis is itThe New World Orderof wrinkles and bad breathIt's not going to belike it was beforeeating youwith my eyes closedhoping you won't get upand go awayIt's going to be something elseSomething worseSomething sillierSomething like thisonly shorterAnd when the reader gets to the last page, they know it can never be it. There is no choice but to turn back to the first page and start again.O my lovedon't you know that we have been killedand that we died together
