My mother's love got taped on reels and spools,
Cassettes she threw on on an old-school deck,
On wheels that spun straight through our lives and went
Unbreaking. What played in us played there on that
Machine, so we were soundtracked to her old-school
Tunes, to folk stuff - sixties hippy **** -
That pulled our radar-hearts around and made
Our souls attend. We'd be bouyed-up on soundwaves,
Beats her hand MC-ed, her finger soft
On PLAY, and sometimes, when the mood was right,
We heard her too. Who knew that half a world
On, on some late night slot, some other tune-in,
I would find her track, and be rewound?
Her sonic reverb tells me, “dance now, dance”.

(I was asked to be part of a four-person panel at a conference in Glasgow dedicated to the arts and mental health. The work of Leonard Cohen was explored in our panel of a journalist, a musician, a poet and a mental health /arts organizer, all sharing a deep fondness for Leonard and his music/lyrics/poetry. On my way home I wrote this poem about the panel experience:)

For an hour
four of us spoke of you
today
sharing views
how it was listening to
the music that you made
how you helped us
make it through
the darkness
of our days
You soundtracked lives
from Quebec
to Glasgow town
in the UK
the place from which
you ran away
to the dry
Aegean Hydra Isle
to meet the muse
named Marianne
whose beauty was unstained
whose mountain you would climb
to wash
your eyelids in the rain

We are not fans
though we would stand
for long days
to see your face
to hear your songs
special sounds sung
coming through
from you
so we could hear
through blessed ears

We are not fans
We are fortunate ones
Who have touched the philosopher’s stone

Sean Hunt April 20th 2017

What depth does the foundation
of my bastion of atoms
crack at?

The adversary,
that nefarious nature
laughing madly throughout the ages,
knows the cracks by heart
I'm told.

He could speak of the stones ground
to dust under the glacier of my soul
for days without repeating himself.

Then he has to know I'm a sucker for romance.

I hear a low hum constantly.

Imagine diamonds falling
in slow motion,
facets catching light,
soundtracked by
Whiter Shade of Pale.

I've long since mastered
the subtle art of getting sidetracked.

I'm also told younger generations
can hear electricity or something.
Still doesn't account for the hum
because the fridge sounds
like talk radio.

I’m thinking of The Orb
and the crusty, mucked crystal
of the transition from child to adult,
scored and soundtracked

excoriated by blunt first loves,
first lives lost, tempest tossed,
into oversensitive abysses
from which there’s “Never loving again!”
except after growing and knowing

Lo-fi made it easier and harder
than these cheeky bleeders,
at least, I know my bare cheeks on film
would take weeks to get back from Boots
and not be broadcast to Kuala Lumpur
in seconds

Age beckons
always
in a way we revulse at
but blunder and succumb to

You becomes we becomes us
as no bad thing
but we must honour
our custodian status
and not impose

The stupid vine grows
where it’ll grow,
we demonstrate this
wonderfully

How do I write
An honest poem
Without laying waste
To everyone I love?

Maybe this
Is my way
Of telling them all
The truth

When dinner is
Soundtracked
By fork tines

And we all say
The same
Things over
And over.

I want to tell you
I’m tired
Of tip-toeing
Your addictions
Your nuances
Your creaky
Hearts.

And when you
Arrive
Shaky full
Of all the
Hysteria
You didn’t
Off-gas

Yesterday
Last month
Three years ago
As an discounted
Worker
As a
Mishandled
Wife
As a
Unseen
Little boy

My teeth
Are mobilizing.

I want to tell you
I can’t speak
To you
About anything
Real.
I can’t even
Say the words
You hurt me.

If that song
Is playing in your head
And you’re wondering
If this poem
Is about you,
It is.

I know I hurt you too.
When I couldn’t write
A love poem.

“What’s the common denominator?”

A simply posed question bubbling from friendly lips. Mathematic in phrasing and hinting at an even-keeled logic, a levelness she wasn’t sure a present heart could possess. But then, isn’t cause always clearer when witnessed from effect?

What was the common denominator of her past partners? Her coterie of used-to-bes? Off-the-cuff, she had said she admired their noses. But hours later, as she lay on the carpet--though the bed was long-cleared of her friends and their coats--she remembered how she felt ever-so-slightly uncontrolled each time. A fall in the most achingly obvious of ways, stopped only by the catch in her throat.

Who was the first? The start of the be? The introduction to was?

It seemed an occurrence out of time, but then they all did in a way. A warm flannel-peaked castle on a dark November afternoon. Two future lieges playing at world-building. A sudden mash of lips--a marriage of nations--soundtracked by muffled mutant turtles. Then the bliss of childhood returned. That bliss bordered and bound her for thirteen years, routinely perforated by pop culture and muted midnight movies. After fourteen, it shattered. Broken like the night sky during a meteor shower.

Her lips still remembered--in lonely moments--the hook of his teeth catching her before she realized she had fallen. She didn’t know him then, but she didn’t claim to. His middle name was enough, mumbled as his head bowed and her eyes crossed trying to hold his smiling gaze in her sight. A secret to share. The first of many, she hoped…
Far too many, she now knew.

But that’s the problem with falling, isn’t it? Too often, you mistake it for flight.