Saturday, July 8, 2017

For over twenty years, every time I went by Parc Portugal in Montreal, I thought of Leonard. I thought of his lyrics and his music, how he touched so many people. How, when I was eighteen, Leonard made me want to become a writer – and to live the life that went with it. So when I actually ran into him one July some years ago in Parc Portugal – he was sitting alone on a park bench right across from his house – I decided to thank him. I sat down next to him and told him how grateful I felt for what he’s done for so many of us. Leonard nodded and said, “So what do you do?” I told him I was a poet and he said, “That’s really cool.” He wore a dark suit and while he sounded cool he also sounded a lot like my grandfather. He wore sunglasses and was totally present and this unnerved me. He said he’d love to read some of my poems. Then we talked about the weather – it was a beautiful summer day in Montreal. The World Cup was on, and he asked if I was watching any of it, and I confessed I hadn’t. I asked him if he was back in Montreal for good – this was around the time he discovered he was bankrupt – and he said he loved it here but couldn’t stand the winters, they were too hard on his bones. Then we were quiet. So I thanked him again and rejoined my friends and went on with the day. In time I did mail him my first book of poems. Six months later I received a postcard from Calcutta with some thoughts. It was signed, “L. Cohen.” I had the feeling of meeting my grandfather, an angel, and the coolest man in the universe. We’ve lost a prophet at a time when we desperately need clarity and reason. But along with the prophecy, we’ve lost the voice, his grace and his style. So put on your suits and leave your flowers on rue Marie-Anne. It’s time to get elegant again.


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