Like in many other cases in BoM, the echoes of the Jewish Prayer Book are clearly felt in this prayer. “Blessed are you who…” is a formula that is repeated again and again in the daily prayers. LC omits “the Lord” from the formula, and does not capitalize “you”, thus creating a more neutral form, which may suite those who come from various traditions.II.46
Help me in the rain, help me in the darkness, help me at my aimless table. Bend me down to the rain, and let the darkness speak to my heart. Blessed are you who speaks from the darkness, who gives a form to desolation. You draw back the heart that is spilled in the world, you establish the borders of pain. Your mercy you make known to those who know your name, and your healing is discovered beneath the lifted cry. The ruins signal your power; by your hand it is broken down, and all things crack that your throne be restored to the heart. You have written your name on the chaos. The eyes that roll down the darkness, you have rolled them back to the skull. Let each man be sheltered in the fortress of your name, and let each one see the other from the towers of your law. Create the world again, and stand us up, as you did before, on the foundation of your light.
As always, this prayer includes many beautiful verses, and also an interesting perception of God. Here God is not only the master of creation, but also of chaos, and chaos here reflects not only physical reality, but also mental one: when the soul is tormented, it can find its way to God through mercy. God is called upon to create the world anew, on the foundation of his light; this reflects the Kabbalistic view, of which LC is well aware, that the creation of the world involved a catastrophe: God’s light was too powerful for the vessels into which it was poured and they broke and fell, taking sparks of the light with them. Redemption will come when the sparks will return to their origin. This is a much more powerful catastrophe than the one of the Garden of Eden, and it is responsible for the sad reality of our existence. It also brings about the idea of tikkun, or mending, which is the process by which the world is made whole again, and in which human beings have an important role, and not the least so through their prayers (I’ve suddenly realized that I’ve already elaborated on this during our discussion of the very first prayer of the book, just three years ago).
There is much more to say, but I’d like to comment only on one more small point. The verse “…help me at my aimless table” brings to mind the many tables that appear in LC’s songs, poems and interviews. Like “room” or “window”, “table” is an important object for Cohen, as well as significant word and concept, part of his private mythology. The expression “aimless table” is very intriguing; it speaks of the poet’s hesitation and confusion when trying to write. It may also refer to the family life which unfolds at the table. The table is, in some ways, a substitute to the altar, and thus also charged with religious meaning. Here is one of LC’s poems, from The Energy of Slaves, which can illustrate some of these allusions:
I think it is safe to tell you where I
am. I'm writing at the old kitchen table
listening to Bach, looking at the sky
and then down at this page where the fable
of this morning will be quickened by those
tiny gods of unemployment who guide
my curious career, who decompose
my song before my eyes, my leap of pride.
So I see it is not safe at all.
I am not sitting at the old table.
I did not come home. I am not fair and tall.
Bach said he'd play but he was unable
to leave the woman sleeping in his bed
who fleshes out the tunes he'd lose instead.
