My Dog, A Poet Now?

William Southold | Opinion Columnist |The Southold Report
“Speaking fiction to power one story at a time.”

My wife and I were watching a documentary on the music of Leonard Cohen, the Canadian singer-songwriter, poet, and novelist, last night. It was great. We were early on Cohen fans, back in the late sixties. It brought back so many memories, the kind that are privy to long lasting relationships.

This morning, as I brought my coffee into the TV room, my dog Middie was waiting for me.

“That was one great doc last night,” she said.

“You watched it? You were with us?

“Good Lord man, you were both so into it.”

“I guess we were,” I agreed.

“That Cohen is some talent, that’s for sure.”

“He is. He was,” I agreed.

“That reminds me. Did you keep a copy of that poem that they discovered after his death and you had them send it you? A while back.

“Yes,” I told her. “It’s around here someplace.”

“You read it at that poetry slam, and nobody guessed its origin, that it had been discovered in some dusty attic in Montreal.”

“No, you’re right. Not one audience member guessed the original author. I revealed it after reading it. That was a fun night.”

“You don’t do that anymore, go to those poetry slam jams or whatever they call them.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know. Things got busy.”

“Too busy to have a little fun? A shame.”

“I don’t know. They were never going to lead to anything,” I said, admittedly with a tinge of sadness in my voice.

“But you fashioned yourself as a poet at the time. I remember. What’s wrong with that?”

I didn’t reply right away. It caused me to think. I have been busy lately, busier than usual with all the breaking news and events to cover. And now being assigned to the campaign trail, things certainly didn’t appear to be getting any slower.

“Well, maybe after the election, maybe I’ll get back into it,” I told her.

“November 2020, is that it?”

“Well, there are always the post election stories, then putting the new, or existing, administration together. And then the inauguration, got to cover it all.”

“So essentially, maybe never. You’re never again going to allow yourself an activity that you truly enjoyed.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“What would you have me do, then?” My dog was beginning to sound like a first rate nag, and I told her so.

“Were you aware that some people actually pay people to nag them? It’s true.”

Now where was she going with this, I wondered.

“OK. How about this. You put attending a poetry jam on your calendar. After Thanksgiving, if you want.”

“After . . .”

“Right after! I know how you think. Don’t try to pull any of that delay stuff with me. You set the date, and I’ll help you.”

“You’ll help me?”

“Yes. I’ve been known to fashion myself as a poet from time to time.”

“You, my dog, a poet now?”

“OK.” Middie paused, turned her head and looked up to the left, in thought. Then said -

“He wears his vest of ribbons and stars,
Awarded, he must remember,
Only in his dreams.
Concealed, he tries, by jackets and scarves. . .”

She stopped, thought some more, then said -

“His club, of but one member,
Just afraid, it seems.”

She paused again, as if putting the whole thing together and repeating it to herself. I could see her little head listening to the rhyme and counting out the tempo in faint nods.

“Yes, that works. As a work in progress, you understand,” she told me. “Not that difficult.”

“So you would help me write poems . . . and then I’d go perform them, is that the idea?”

“That’s the ticket.”

I gave that some thought, but another thought quickly took over.

“Hey, wait a minute. Is that poem about me?”

“If the vest fits . . . c’mon man. Loosen up. We could do it.”

With that Middie turned, leaving once again. I wondered when she was going to start wearing a mask - who was that masked poet?

“And when you do do it. Lose the bow tie. I mean, let’s get serious.”

With that she started towards the door, and down the hall.

“The life of a poet is not something you choose, it chooses you, if I remember Cohen’s quote from that doc correctly,” she added. “Don’t fight it, big man.” And then was gone.

My dog once again left me in thought, along with a cold cup of coffee. I rummaged through my side table and pulled out that Leonard Cohen poem that I had used. It’s where I keep it; I pull it out and read it from time to time.

I will add his poem at the end of this, if you would like to read it yourself, and surmise if you would have identified its author without knowing aforehand.

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(CNS Disclaimer: Mr. Southold has in no way won the Pulitzer Prize.)

“Truth”
We once shared a story, our lives entwined
You understood me more than I had in mind.
You took hold of my reins, you were my guide.
You found all my secrets, you counted my lies.
Truth has sent it’s hearse for me, I’ll sit back, sit back, sit back, take the ride.

You once sent me a limo, I thought now I belong.
I rode in the back, composing your song.
I waved, I waved, at my only fans.
They were few. I just followed your plans.
With your lies sitting next to me, that’s when it began.

You can bang on the windows, you can try at the doors,
You can scream at the driver, you can dig at cold floors.
You will find it’s no use, when you’ve been living a lie.
No one can see you, know you’re inside.
When truth sends it’s hearse for you, sit back, sit back, sit back, take the ride.

Truth is the arbiter, truth shows the way.
It knows your transgressions, it will make you pay.
Truth keeps its tally, it knows all our names,
It holds forth its bright prises, the golden one fame.
We reach through the window. We let in the rain.

Just why you chose me, I was never sure.
I was your patsy, you knew I’d endure.
I saw you in SoHo, I had you in France.
You had so many fans, in your presence, they danced.
Your beauty embroidered with lies. We danced, we danced, we danced.

You can bang on the windows, you can try at the doors,
You can scream at the driver, you can dig at cold floors.
You will find it’s no use, when you’ve been living a lie.
No one can see you, know you’re inside.
When truth sends it’s hearse for you, sit back, sit back, sit back, take the ride.

I chased you in sunshine, I chased in the rain.
It didn’t much matter, it was all just the same.
I chased up the mountains, no matter how far,
You understood before me, I would not be a star.
But I made myself stronger, lifting my chin, to your bar.

You ask where we’re going. Only now do you care.
It’s not on your map, or mine, to be fair.
Our hips pressed together, your whispered cries.
Truth is driving our hearse now, something in it has died.
When truth finds you out, sit back, sit back, sit back, if you’re cold now, try your shroud of lies.