Thursday, November 17, 2016
Kill the Flame
This hole of a fucking year.
I don't read a lot of poetry any longer. It doesn't call to me the way it did once. Or perhaps I've become too consumed with practical things to give it the time I used to. But no one makes me pick it up again the way Cohen does. No one stops me in my tracks and causes me to hold words in my mouth and test their feel while kicking the tires between head and heart for truth and durability. No one reminds me that literature without an infusion of poetry (in its cadence, or heart or ideas) is a dull, flaccid tool in the reader's hand with such powerful immediacy as he did.
Does. Continues to.
So long and thanks for all the words, sir.