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What is a saint? A saint is someone who has achieved a remote human possibility. It is impossible to say what that possibility is. I think it has something to do with the energy of love. Contact with this energy results in the exercise of a kind of balance in the chaos of existence. A saint does not dissolve the chaos; if he did the world would have changed long ago. I do not think that a saint dissolves the chaos even for himself, for there is something arrogant and warlike in the notion of a man setting the universe in order. It is a kind of balance that is his glory. He rides the drifts like an escaped ski. His course is the caress of the hill. His track is a drawing of the snow in a moment of its particular arrangement with wind and rock. Something in him so loves the world that he gives himself to the laws of gravity and chance. Far from flying with the angels, he traces with the fidelity of a seismograph needle the state of the solid bloody landscape. His house is dangerous and finite, but he is at home in the world. He can love the shape of human beings, the fine and twisted shapes of the heart. It is good to have among us such men, such balancing monsters of love.

Leonard Cohen  "Beautiful losers" 1966

Den mannen er en trollmann med ord!
Så programmet med ham på nrk i går kveld.
Elsker musikken hans.

Er så enig! Cohen har truffet meg mang en gang med ord og musikk.

Jeg så ikke programmet, men har sett et for noen år siden....kanskje det samme? Husker at jeg lot meg fasinere stort over at han går i retreat i lengre perioder inni mellom....på Buddhistisk vis.

"balancing monsters of love" 


UlveMor 

Leonard Cohen kan stødig levere ifra seg ord som smetter imellom alle rasjonelle tanker og går rett mot strupen.
en profet uten nøyaktige historiske linjer er han også og han skriver mer mellom linjene enn han vet sjøl, hehe.
Flott fyr

I går kveld, ute i skogen, begynte jeg plutselig å nynne på en av Cohens sanger. Jeg undret meg over den innskytelsen, men sangen var fin så jeg fortsatte. I dag kom disse innleggene om Cohen. Bortsett fra dette har jeg ikke hørt eller lest noe av Cohen på lenge, men når navnet hans dukker opp begynner det å sitre noen strofer fra en av hans mindre kjente sanger. Inni meg.
På 70-tallet hadde jeg en kassett med denne sangen. Jeg mistet kassetten, men noen strofer var så godt memorert at Cohens lyrikk har fulgt meg fra innsiden siden da. I dag finner man selvsagt teksten på internett, så her er sangen som gjorde innhogg i meg:

One of us Cannot Be Wrong

I lit a thin green candle, to make you jealous of me.
But the room just filled up with mosquitos,
they heard that my body was free.
Then I took the dust of a long sleepless night
and I put it in your little shoe.
And then I confess that I tortured the dress
that you wore for the world to look through.

I showed my heart to the doctor: he said I just have to quit.
Then he wrote himself a prescription,
and your name was mentioned in it!
Then he locked himself in a library shelf
with the details of our honeymoon,
and I hear from the nurse that he's gotten much worse
and his practice is all in a ruin.

I heard of a saint who had loved you,
so I studied all night in his school.
He taught that the duty of lovers
is to tarnish the golden rule.
And just when I was sure that his teachings were pure
he drowned himself in the pool.
His body is gone but back here on the lawn
his spirit continues to drool.

An Eskimo showed me a movie
he'd recently taken of you:
the poor man could hardly stop shivering,
his lips and his fingers were blue.
I suppose that he froze when the wind took your clothes
and I guess he just never got warm.
But you stand there so nice, in your blizzard of ice,
oh please let me come into the storm.

Leonard Cohen



Man glemmer ikke slikt fordi det er så uendelig vakkert.
For meg er Cohen betrakteren og deltakeren som beskriver seg selv og oss alle uten fordømmelse eller ønske om å pynte på fasaden. Det skrapes inn til beinet, og han viser fram det triste, vonde, håpløse og patetiske og skaper kunst gjennom å peke på det vakre i det triste.

Ikke ulikt sjamanvirksomhet, eller det flere presterer på diktavdelingen her inne. Nevner ingen navn for da blir man nok ikke ferdig før langt ut på natt….