My poem too Leonard Cohen- "Afterlight"

Afterlight

 

We found out that Leonard Cohen died this morning

and the world was reminded about poetry 

the pale domes of white light

all singing faraway from where we sleep

 

flame-shadowing gods everywhere

down the Tottenham Court Road

trapped up in treelight

lost in the light of the kitchen

 

you hold onto me and say 

where do they go, the torpedoing shadows that fill the world

where the moon tries to draw closer and touch love, 

but doesn't quite make it through the fog. 

 

And how death could be the only way to reunite

and return to music, and find a different kind of peace,

again how the angels must have known already

without the intent of prayers

 

the long long afterlight

stored up in the day, 

shattering the harshness of the blank world.

But still it rains at home.

 

Like you, poetry still haunts everyone

like the way we brought our baby home from the hospital

all blue and breathed up 

covered in traffic, a swaying heaven ship

 

the new cold in the air of our flat

is gentle, a cradle of ships all resting

making the afterlight command 

a nameless world, all static and in us 

 

we all forgot to be homesick 

unhurt by the thought of “paradise”, 

building empires in our heads, made-up of broken-up light keys, 

the way the word ‘key’ is aways rowing forward

 

pulling us towards the belief of unseen shores

moving us in, and making us mad again

walking near us, playing hell violins

But really moving us closer to our own need for love.

 

 

Love which is warred for

safer in the sky

closer to the birds

who know your dreams intimately. 

 

I have woken up in a window

and existed from both sides.

the morning is a train

the afterlife is a horse

 

lovedreamed

Riding, riding, the sky to the sky

looking and pulled up 

in the wilderness of the stars that are lit. 

 

Arms wide open, so close

growing into the dark cupboard

a hyacinth stretching 

out into the first daylight. 

 

Afterwards

(for Daisy Boyd)

 

Post-hearted and regretted 

we find you already fallen

 

autumn always kills me

the trees let go silvering fierce

 

the show is on the ground 

the sky is upturned

 

London is no longer famous

the children are buzzing fingertips 

 

a paper bag of tears named Diana

ceremonial stone walls

 

cigarette end gasping a golden rope

an arrow of the past

 

I don’t know how many times we’ve moved house

to find space for dreaming

 

all of our old letters remain the downpour 

unable to disturb the living

 

Ophelia is in the wind somewhere on the coast 

leaving the sand to announce its suffering

 

the summer before comes back to haunt us

abandoned crows

 

Bunhill Fields undated

the remains of lovers

 

prepared like a porcelain dinner 

always promising and staggering.