Cohen's Fedora

[carm]

(Written as a tribute perhaps, to Leonard Cohen's Fedora…)

Voyeuristically, from above I accompany your every step, vying for your constant, quiet attention. You and I coexist within the folds of this cerebral meeting place, conjoined while diaphoretic air settles beneath the skin of this espoused shell. I see from where I stand, your face, profoundly sincere and geometrically well-proportioned. Pleasingly arranged, I hug close to your body, adding a touch of confidence to your overall savoir faire.

I am Fedora, the Melodrama, always seeking an escape off the rack to sit weightlessly poised on the slanted surface atop your brow. At times interpersonal conflicts rage within due to potent mercurial fumes previously inhaled. Intense combinations of anger, depression, irritability and exagerated emotions have given way to extremely erratic behaviour. Quite virtuously I take hold your warm, appreciative smile. Unearthed, it elicits ineffable empathy, sublimely mingling with that severe sense of purpose surrounding your persona.

I sing your name as an avowal perched in this sacred abode. Bent on catching the light of each lifeline that leads to your heart and mind, I bear witness to all that never sleeps inside your head. Innumerable paradigms of the mind champion your world as you hum tender lullabies, true to their linguistic purity. Here at my window your name, your song, echoes unto eternity. Inextricably linked, we are caught on the precarious threshold of “You and I” where the only holy thing that matters is to know thy name, to know it well. At the house of the poet I rejoice, gaining insight layer by layer midst this auspicious rendezvous. Taking pause amid the silence of this intimacy, grace shines eternal.

Everybody knows we’ve weathered and endured the harshness of the seasons. You who broods beneath familiar inner silences drawing together insights of intellectual inquiry, appear as elegant as ever as I glance towards your illustrious “vintage” countenance. I learn a little bit more about you, studying your tipped forward frame as it repositions itself, restoring a sense of lost equilibrium. Energy rejoices as the poet takes rest, vanquished from holding tight, holding on to each prayer. Under the shade of your face we arrange ourselves, cornered, one to the wall the other beckoning.

I am but a passive empty shell connected to this space, this typography. Surely in time I will have become almost forgotten, body in pause rueing another life aloud. But wait, suddenly I pinge on the idea that for now I am your most prudent adornment and I am lit up with a pride that reaches to the heavens and beyond. We sit body to body, your corners conforming to my edges so graciously within this cerebral meeting place. Oh how I feel the closeness beneath as I sit above manipulating the light cast before us. By your considerate hand we are together here in song, radiant as ever. This is the pleasure that underlays your embrace, this belonging to you. Sureness swells reverant as I slip to your brow tracing each temple respectfully.

Quite swiftly, you bend to your knees in an elaborate gesture of respect, saluting your disciples as opulent hymns abate in pure air. Cognizant of the fact that it is you and I who are running the show, we saunter offstage dissappearing singularily into the folds of this shared niche, glimpsing one to the other. And then your hand nudges my side beckoning one last traipse on stage for a final acknowledgment to the evening. After an endless string of encores we skip spryly offstage, adding just a touch of panache to our departure. Back stage, united, we collapse one into the other.

You and I carry each other close and upright, investing prudently towards a unified vision to the future. And we swear to never relinquish the rights to these wild, open spaces. Not at the start of each solo, nor at the end of each song. But, where then do you and I exist beyond this sketch, this rhetorical melodrama? Long after the fabric of our life has been stretched and frayed will we be forced to simply submit, to rest in a quiescent state with the eye of the world upon us? Will your semblant voice endure or be silenced within that perpetual idleness? That silence would be deafening!