Let Us Compare Mythologies. Leonard Cohen

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      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.

      I have learned my elaborate lie

      of soaring crosses and poisoned thorns

      and how my fathers nailed him

      like a bat against a barn

      to greet the autumn and late hungry ravens

      as a hollow yellow sign.

THE SONG OF THE HELLENIST

       For R.K.

       Those unshadowed figures, rounded lines of men

       who kneel by curling waves, amused by ornate birds—

      If that had been the ruling way,

       I would have grown long hairs for the corners of my mouth . . .

      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 СКАЧАТЬ