Well, there’s no doubt that America has never been as polarized as it is presently. While the eschatological evangelicals wait anxiously for the battle of Armageddon, I picked up Cohen’s new album, Dear Heather. I’d had my eye on the reviews for the past month or so, which form a pastiche as divided as Larry King’s graphic representation of the electoral college vote.

In my opinion, Dear Heather is a delight. Cohen dedicates the album to Jack McClelland, a song to Irving Layton, and performs F.R. Scott’s poem “Villanelle for our Time”. Monster of canlit — it doesn’t get better than this!

But this album is by no means a critical darling. Bernard Perusse of the Montreal Gazette writes of the arrangements on Dear Heather: “Could someone please introduce Leonard to some actual musicians so he can ditch the Tinker-toy, Casio sound?” Perusse’s smugness belies the fact that, while Cohen’s trademark synth sound resurfaces on this album, the arrangements are full, complex, and improvisational. What I like about Leonard Cohen’s arrangements here is that, while the drums and bass play in regular time, the keyboard solos often spill over the beat, resulting in a breathless, jazzy sound. It follows that, The Winnipeg Sun doesn’t share Perusse’s assessment: “Cohen and a roster of living, breathing players invest these songs with a welcome earthiness, sincerity and depth”. Methinks Perusse didn’t listen to the album.

The Globe and Mail is a little more even-handed in their assessment:

Cohen’s musings on emptiness and creativity, in his spoken-word number “Morning Glory”, apply also to this album, in which rags appear in the same parade as robes of gold.

The Globe, however, jumps off the fence and firmly plants both feet in the anti-Heather camp: “The tunes are often just implications hanging between the chord changes and the narrow melodies of the poet’s speech.”

Parts of Dear Heather resonate in time with current events. Cohen writes in “On That Day”, itself an ambivalent response to the events of September 11:

Some people say
It’s what we deserve
For sins against g-d
For crimes in the world

I wouldn’t know
I’m just holding the fort
Since that day
They wounded New York

In the same manner L.C. reflects upon the proper response to the events that have served as prelude to the current polarization of the U.S., the critical community doesn’t quite know how to handle this album. While the left and right in America drift ever further apart, so does the critical response to Cohen’s latest. While this makes for a rather tenuous situation politically, in the world of art it’s always a welcome sign. Indeed, to paraphrase Blaise Cendrars, there’s poetry at play here!

Well, at least we don’t have to worry about Leonard Cohen. In this reviewers estimation, the Cohen empire is alive and well.

My translation of the first lines.

Hear! We Spear-Danes in days past
heard of brave rulers of the people;
how these heros did fame-worthy workings.
Often Scyld Scefing faced enemy warriors
from many nations; took away the mead-bench:
terrified the enemy. A waif when first found
his life was difficult. He learned from that experience
to prosper under heaven. Gained honor so that
neighboring nations from over the whale-road
obeyed this ruler; rendered him tribute.
He was a good King! In later years he sired
a Prince in Kingcourt, whom God sent
as comfort to the people who’d long lived Lordless.
Him their Lord of Life, Heaven’s Glorious Ruler
gave worldly honor. Beowulf his name;
the wide-flung fame of Scyld’s strong heir
was known to all Scede-land.
Thus should a young man good deeds accomplish;
give splendid gifts while yet his Father lives
so that growing older he becomes
a beloved companion of his people;
and when war comes then shall the Landsmen
valiently stand by him; strong deeds deliver.
In any nation such a Prince will prosper.
Scyld left the world at Wyrd’s appointed time
in all his strength took the Lord’s aegis
on his long journey. Warriors carried him
to the sea’s edge: dear retainers he had bid
do the last duty while yet a ruler
strong in mind and heart. At harbor waited
the ship’s ringed prow rimed with ice; a hero’s ship
ready to set out. They laid on board
the dear ring giver, this famous man, stretched
beneath the mast, in the boat’s bosom.
There was much treasure from distant kingdoms.
Nor have we heard of a ship adorned
more beautifully for battle: war weapons,
armor, coats of mail, swords–all left with the dead.
On his chest–jewels heaped for his journey
to the sea’s long keeping.
Then the men raised a golden standard
high over head; let the tide bear the warrior off,
hearts mournful, minds sore. They stood in somber silence.
No councellor in hall, nor hero under heaven,
could tell, in truth, who received that cargo.

There was in burgum Scylding Beowulf,
King of those peoples for many years; dear
Lord of the land after his sire’s death. To him
noble Healfdene was born.

Cherokee. On both my mother and father’s side, back there three, four generations. I like the fact that I have some of that blood in me, too. At least enough to enable me to be a part of the tribe, if I wanted to. There’s a story about my great great grandfather coming to Baltimore from Oklahoma with 100 head of horses to set up a stable around the turn of last century. A reverse Trail of Tears, I guess. I’ve yet to find the documentation. You know, in a place where you are a stranger it’s good to know who, or what, you are. The late Gogosi, or Carroll Arnett was a fine Cherokee poet. Here are a few poems from his New and Selected Poems Night Perimeters (Greenfield review Press, 1991).

Last May

I watched two
barn swallows swoop
the field we had
just planted.
unlike the two
National Guard jet
fighters which had
roared us again
and again an hour
earlier, the swallows
were not armed with
four rockets each and
did not anger me
because I knew
what nation they
guarded, and I sang
aloud to honor them
and their nation.

Sweat

In the closed dark
of the lodge I hear
the rocks sing
and sing again as
water is poured, feel
the spirits of rock
and water searing,
cleansing.
I pray in
gratefulness.
This is the only peace
there is.

The Old Man Said: One

Some will tell
you it doesn’t
matter. That is
a lie. Everything,
every single thing
matters. And
nothing good
happens fast.

The Old Man Said: Two

The wisdom of an
animal may be
measured by
the quantity of its
excrement.
See
how little of his
waste brother deer
leaves behind.

Song To Move On

li uh lo lo la lo lo
li uh lo lo la lo lo
li uh lo lo la lo lo
li uh lo lo la lo lo

This is an exquisite magazine with a Sonia Delauny book design for a cover and more treats from the year 1913 in the form of two sketches, two book designs, a self-portrait (photo), and a brief introduction to her art by the Russian Futurist Natalia Goncharova. This magazine does not confine itself to the fateful year of its title, however. We also find poetry by Barbara Guest, John Taggart, Cole Swensen, Jed Rasula, Nathaniel Makey, Karen Volkman, Alan Halsey, and Louis Armand. There’s also interesting visuals (poetry and other) from Joshua Clover, Sarah Riggs, and the omnipresent Michael Basinski. All for $10.00 from:

1913 Press
831 East Market Street
Iowa City, Iowa 52245
USA

Spent a good day with friends at the Tokyo Metropolitan Teien Art Gallery viewing the woodcuts, etchings, and paintings of Emil Nolde. I was surprised at the small scale of Nolde’s people-centered works: the dancers and prophets and Ensor-like satirical scenes, and likewise was surprised at the large scale of his glorious flowers that he somehow managed to do while under house arrest (more or less) by the Nazis. Nolde’s draughtsmanship owes a lot to Munch and his flat color areas are a nod to Gauguin. He also owes a debt to Ensor, I think, esp. Ensor’s Seven Deadly Sins series of etchings. My favorites? “Sickman, Doctor, Death and Devil,” has to be the best. I also enjoyed his splay-legged “Dancer” of 1913, so carried away in her erotic swoon that one can almost smell her sweat and musk. Moreover, it was a great joy to examine Nolde’s black and white woodcuts closely with my son Yoichi. Their very roughness, starkness and the use of the wood grain as part of the composition invited us to try the technique for ourselves.

Afterwards everyone went to the picnic area for talk and sushi. The kids wrestled, raced, collected acorns, and played. It was time well spent in good company; a memorable time. Thanks to all those who were with us.