Len Cento
from the poems of Leonard Cohen
I shaved my head, I put on robes
I told the truth and look where it got me
I don’t want to be a friend to everyone
a sip of wine, a cigarette, and then it’s time to go
my time is running out and still I have not sung the true song
I am this thing that needs to sing
you’d sing too if you found yourself in a place like this
because of a few songs wherein I spoke of their mystery
women have been exceptionally kind
you must try it sometime
on certain incredible nights
the truth of the line overwhelms all other considerations
I admit that I seem to have lost my courage
and I do not gladly wait the years
pray I’m forgiven the life that I’ve lived
hanging around street corners
worried of course, defeated of course
I’ve been thinking about that for 30 years
Elegy for a Stranger
From behind the door, we hear the sound
of someone’s midnight anguish,
enough to silence the stuttering owls and
end the whippoorwill’s call.
Into the abyss of grief he pours
all of the sorrow he was saving,
reserving none for future loss,
convinced nothing’s left to be overcome.
In the silence of approaching dawn,
he surrenders to exhausted sleep,
unaware of the holy watchers, there to wait,
to guard and keep.
At first they won’t be known to him.
His doubts will quickly repel the thoughts
of God restoring anything good
after everything he believes God took.
Holy watchers by his side,
breathing peace into the room,
collecting every tear and sigh,
ready for him to wake, to rise.
Prophet
after the sculpture, Discontent, by Nancy Elizabeth Prophet (1929)
She stands in the kitchen with russets and knife,
artfully rounding each one with the blade,
swirls of peel dropping into the sink,
forming a golden spiral.
Her inner fire burned all the history
of others’ expectations and past prohibitions.
I won’t be a domestic. I will study art.
I will not bend an inch.
This Afro-indigenous girl of no means,
who could analyse marble for what lay beneath,
went to New York and then on to Paris, insisting:
My gift commands me.
She studied a stranger in a Paris café,
perfectly rendered his well-proportioned face,
identifying him as the representation
of her growing discontent
over minimal freedom and not enough time,
constant sexism, racism, and poverty.
Still, Nancy Prophet did not bend an inch,
continued to carve out beauty.
There were exhibitions with critical acclaim,
but independence remained elusive.
Praise for Silence, Congolaise, and Peace,
but for her, it made no difference.
At the end, she was serving once more in a kitchen,
a domestic in exchange for her room, board,
and a place to hold stone and give it form,
still doing what her gift commanded.
Somewhere Between
When something is missing,
and we can’t define it, we begin a quest,
because we’ll know it when we see it.
This often leads to wrong turns, dead ends,
and too many impulsive indiscretions.
Perfumed encounters, music turned low,
the thrill of discovery over and over,
until that quest itself becomes what we seek,
rather than arrival at a constant, a base;
and since the weight of shame is too heavy to carry,
we travel back and forth between sorry/not sorry.
Nancy Tinnell lives and writes in Louisville, KY. She has self-published two chapbooks, enjoys both free verse and formal poetic structures, and enjoys writing poems that reference music and musicians. She frequently organizes events that offer both readings and musical performances by her friends. Her work has been curated by Rat’s Ass Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Poetry Breakfast, Clayjar Review, and Shot Glass Journal, ONE ART Haiku Anthology 2024 and 2025, among others.
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