Atwood, Plath...Step Aside

A friend pointed me towards THIS. It's a collection of love poems by Leonard Nimoy. I loved it so much that I approached the publisher and was asked to write the following review, to be included on the back cover of the next hard cover edition:

Wow! I'm blown away by the profound sensitivity, introspection and unique, masterful use of language that Leonard employs. "We are the dreamers. We are the dancers. Life is the music. Love is the song." I mean, I never would have thought to say that. Who the fuck says that? I'm humbled. I'm shocked. No, I'm spocked. Holy fuck.
K-Dough

Ella and Me

This one is older, but I can feel that double-edged sentiment of romantic isolation increasingly re-occurring these days. Contrary to what that connotes, it's actually a welcome change...

Ella and Me

Gazing through a glass eye in the face of a solemn room,
to cobbled sidewalks, spattered with autumn rain.
Real live people are out in this damp October rush hour.
Well-dressed soldiers of industry marching through chilling drizzle,
shielded by a New York Times or an umbrella;
headed towards coffee houses and warm dinners.
Coming in wet and cold, to clean, freshly washed robes
and hot, naked arms.

They seem so glamorous down there. As if the cameras were rolling.
As if Woody Allen were re-making Manhattan right here on Bloor West.

From down on the streetscape they don’t hear
Ella's soulful warbling, questioning: Where Or When?
They don’t savour sharp peppers in a pasta for one.
They don't breathe the earthy fullness of the Nag Champa smoulders.
And if they bothered to look up -- just a few stories --
they’d see candles dancing shamelessly,
like Amsterdam whores, in my screenless window.

By the thousands they pass this anonymous window every night, like ducks on a wheel.
I’d do anything for their attention, but they walk on, expressionless;
unaware of the similarities between us; unconcerned with learning they are kindred.

Nevertheless, I am comforted by the fact that, forever, Ella is here.

If I were Rick Blaine this would all be much easier.
I’d resolve to send Ilsa's ghost on a one way flight
and resign to the end of the bar, content in my bravado.
However...the days of the steel heart are no longer mine.

Massaging the Dead

I’ve spent a lifetime massaging the dead:
Worrying and fretting; making them coffee;
bringing them groceries; cutting their lawns;
making them come and dumbing down the universe.

But all they can do is expect:
Expect the tickle to be careful;
expect to be soul-fed sugary lies like baby birds;
expect me to breathe meaning into love
that is brain-dead, frozen blue and far past the point of resuscitation.

They are unable even to lift limbs, but expect my sincere inspiration,
and heartfelt submission to their impossible ideals.

And what does it leave me – this hamstrung marathon?
Nothing but a tied and bound conscience buried in the backyard with dream bones and rotting table scraps, whose skeletal middle digits pierce my spine when I’m drunk.

There is no peaceful place for me in a life where the smallest shreds of honesty embarrass the dinner guests and equivocation is a virtue.

The dead are harm in my arms, though my arms find it hard to let go
for fear that I’ll slip from the greased edge of their cold zombie love
into the wild blue.

Parachute packed, I now understand that freefall is the best redemption.

So I’m jumping.