Two Poems by P.K. Page

The Conjuror

Tonight

under this sky

I could plunge my hands in the snow

and pull forth goldfish.

In The Waiting Room

I've just cut my index finger

on the surfeit of staples

in your manilla

envelope, George.

Eager already to read

the books it pouches,

I tear and cut.

Blood spurts as if I

were bleeding to death

I staunch it with

Kleenex.

Red in a flash.

The receptionist hovers

helpless hopes

it don't hurt (her grammar)

fails in the flood of her faint.

I fan her

try to loosen her collar.

The blood

stains her

stains her soft throat

the white skin of her chin,

there are drops on her sweater

as I

her assailant

stand guiltily by

holding my bleeding finger

like a knife.

A Poem by Mona Elaine Adilman

The Thing

The air is heavy with dreaming.

Sudden consciousness explodes

like an alarm clock, shocking her awake.

The muscles in her left leg

tremble violently, aspen limbs

protesting movement.

She stretches and cries out in pain.

Spasms beat like a crow's wing

against the prison of the mattress.

O God, am I stroking out?

She feels a weakness in her left arm.

The ceiling grows hazy, melting

into the snow on the roof outside.

She falls into a second sleep,

deeper than the first,

her left side anchored to this thing

that changes from thunder to lightning

in her brain, and at last,

leads her by the hand like a child.

Four New Poems by Leonard Cohen

For Marcia (1982)

There was a dog barking

and a woman coughing

when I received the key

to Eternal life

There was a woman smiling

in a cold sauna

and a monkey collecting money

for an Italian singer

when Satan touched my spinal column

with his ivory fingernail

Many people depend on me

for the proof of God

Lord, I’ve disappointed

most of them

Only Marcia knows

how far I’ve fallen

The Better Part (1981)

Since I surrendered

to my evil nature

and the sloth which lies behind

my frantic activity,

the better part of me

(which I could never locate)

has begun to appear

in the dreams of people

unknown to me.

According to their letters

I am being useful in small ways,

giving helpful counsel,

occasionally effecting a dramatic rescue

in the midst of dangerous events.

The winter gathers strength

against my thin and flimsy strategies.

I can’t get out of bed.

Go, little soldier,

on your ghostly errands,

across the wide Canadian night.

Nothing here detains you now.

Go safely on that shining bridge

which has developed in the air

over the collapse of my daily life.

Religious Talent (1981)

The Jew saw him

kick a dog

and he saw the Jew

whip something soft

The Scotch are

cruel to clouds

and the German believes

he is alone

in the terror of bodies

I myself have chosen

the long way home

far from women

and synagogues

People of little

religious talent

are anxious to know

where I’ve been

A Deep Happiness (1981)

A deep happiness

has seized me

My Christian friends say

that I have received

the Holy Spirit

It is only the end of love

It is only the torn anemone

fastened to the rock

in the salt sea wind

O friend of my scribbled life

your heart is like mine—

your loneliness

will bring you home.