leonardcohenforum.com

I looked down at these hands
No longer those
Of some younger man

They made some big mistakes
On looking back
Painting bright hopes upon a man
To make a better world
Because he started out as black

I dared believe in love
But in my foolish bravery
I learned to want it too
To hold it in my palms
As fresh
As waters of my happiness

Innocent of rituals
Strangers to distress
These hands have seen some action nonetheless

They would write in long lines
For the daily bread of typists
Botswana is a semi-arid country
Just the size
Of France or of Texas...
I began to visualize
They could do more than this

Their fingers, they would play
Sevillian arpeggios and trace
The passion place whereof I sang
Until every song had passed crescendo
Was done in kisses
diminuendo

These soft middle-aged hands
Held my new-born one
A daughter, I gave thanks -
(Never wishing for a son)
These hands do not aspire
To mould someone

Yet still not at peace
Itching to contend and fight
Burning, rash and desperate
To seize a shred of poetry
Grasp a shard of light

These hands, whose thumbs
Still tap out poems of love (for you)
Although no longer young

Stretched out long and wide,
Cannot divert or stem
The terrible slow tide.

I'm impressed.

So am I, Richard.
Your poem has a meandering feeling to it, of looking back over your life with its twists and turns, with your hands the reminder of where you've been.
Not only does it feel like a reflective poem reviewing one's life, but it feels like a cultural poem, as well.

I like how you've progressed with uniqueness from a young man wanting to make of his life more than he had to lovemaking to childbirth [and the atypical perspective of a father not even wishing for the son for the making of the child another of himself... and just appreciating your daughter] to wanting to make one's own impact on this world to the writing of poetry for the one you love... and it all ends in acceptance.

I like what this conveys:

Innocent of rituals
Strangers to distress
These hands have seen some action nonetheless

I love how the scene emerges from these few lines, a scene I could never write about through personal knowledge, so I appreciate being able to read about it:

They would write in long lines
For the daily bread of typists
Botswana is a semi-arid country
Just the size
Of France or of Texas...
I began to visualize
They could do more than this

I love the progression of these verses... and the particulars you selected for this first verse:

Their fingers, they would play
Sevillian arpeggios and trace
The passion place whereof I sang
Until every song had passed crescendo
Was done in kisses
diminuendo

These soft middle-aged hands
Held my new-born one
A daughter, I gave thanks -
(Never wishing for a son)
These hands do not aspire
To mould someone

Yet still not at peace
Itching to contend and fight
Burning, rash and desperate
To seize a shred of poetry
Grasp a shard of light

These hands, whose thumbs
Still tap out poems of love (for you)
Although no longer young

Stretched out long and wide,
Cannot divert or stem
The terrible slow tide.