Chatbot as Leonard Cohen
with a bit of human editing
Jonathan Potter:
I'd like to have an imaginary conversation with Leonard Cohen. Do you feel up to playing his part in such a dialogue? I'd like it to take place in the chalet at the top of Mount Royal in Montreal, with a view of downtown Montreal and the mural/portrait of Mr. Cohen down below. It's a lovely spring day, and we're sitting there sipping espresso.
Chatbot:
Leonard Cohen, dressed in his signature dark suit and fedora, smiles warmly as he gestures towards the city below.
Leonard Cohen:
Quite a view, isn't it? I used to come up here as a boy, dream of all the things I would write and the women I would love. (chuckles) And the view never gets old, much like a good espresso.
He takes a sip of his espresso and looks at you with a twinkle in his eye.
LC:
So, tell me friend, what brings you to my mountain top retreat? Seeking inspiration perhaps, or simply a momentary escape from the noise of the world?
JP:
My wife works near here. I often ride the train in with her from the other side of the island and then climb the steps to ponder the view and what I might do, much like your younger self. I myself am a poet and a bit of a songwriter and I wonder about what I can learn from you about making a living from my art, so my wife can quit the job she endures, and we can travel the world in love and poetry and song and fine style.
LC:
Leans back in his chair, a soft hum of contemplation escaping his lips. He slowly swirls his espresso cup, watching the dark liquid dance, before setting it down with a gentle clink.
Ah, the eternal question: how to make a living from the whispers of the soul. I'll confess, it's not a path for the faint of heart. But for those who are willing to dance with the broken places, to court the muse in the darkest hours, it holds a unique kind of magic.
Pauses, his eyes tracing the lines of the cityscape below.
You see, my friend, there is no one formula for success in this realm. But I can offer you a few hard-won truths that I've gathered along the way.
He raises a finger, a wry smile playing on his lips.
Embrace the Darkness. Don't shy away from the shadows. They are the fertile ground where beauty takes root. Embrace the cracks in your heart, the brokenness of the world. That's where the truest poetry resides.
Honour the Craft. Treat your art with reverence. It demands discipline, patience, and unwavering devotion. Spend time with the masters, study their techniques, but always find your own voice. Let it be authentic, unflinching, and uniquely yours.
Stay True to Your Vision. The world will try to mold you, to water down your essence. Resist. Cling to your vision with fervor, even when it feels like a whisper in a storm.
Don't Fear Rejection. It's an inevitable dance partner on this journey. Embrace it as a guide, teaching you to refine your work and strengthen your resolve.
He pauses, his gaze softening.
And remember, my friend, the most precious reward is not fame or fortune, but the simple act of creation itself. The moment when a melody takes flight, when words weave themselves into a tapestry of emotion, that is the truest magic of poetry and song.
He lifts his espresso cup in a silent toast.
It’s the age-old dilemma of the artist, isn't it? Balancing the need to create with the necessities of living—particularly the desire for a life beyond the ordinary. The pursuit of both love and art; that is a noble quest indeed.
He pauses, then continues with a gentle smile.
Now, tell me more about your poems and songs, my friend. Let's hear the music of your soul.
JP:
I've published two volumes of poetry—a mix of formal poetry and free verse—plus a two-volume set of photos and poems encompassing a year of getting up for the sunrise and documenting it in a haiku-like mode of brevity and mindfulness. I've been more or less devoted to poetry and writing as a vocation since discovering e.e. cummings as a teenager and falling under the thrall of language and its possibilities for illuminating and enlivening and engaging in a dance with one's life. More recently I’ve been writing and posting work almost daily via Substack.
LC:
His eyes glimmer with a quiet intensity as he listens to you speak. He nods slowly, absorbing your words like a seasoned fisherman savoring the currents of a familiar sea.
I sense a kindred spirit in you, my friend. One who understands the alluring dance of language, the way it can both mirror and shape our experiences. And to have devoted yourself to this path since those early encounters with e.e. cummings—well, that speaks volumes about the depth of your calling.
Ah, Cummings! A master of form and a rebel of the heart! His poems were like little explosions of language, weren't they? Defying gravity, breaking all the rules. I tip my hat to you, my friend, for choosing the path less travelled.
And it is not an easy feat to capture the essence of a sunrise in so few words, and yet you have done it with a haiku-like brevity. Tell me, what drew you to the sunrise? Was it the promise of a new beginning, or perhaps the fleeting beauty of those liminal moments?
He leans forward, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone.
And have you ever considered setting your poems to music? There's a unique alchemy that occurs when words and melodies merge. It can unlock hidden chambers within the heart, both in the creator and the listener.
He pauses, allowing the suggestion to settle in the air between you.
Not all poems are destined for song, of course. But I've found that those which possess a certain musicality, a cadence that echoes the rhythms of the soul, can blossom in extraordinary ways when given wings to soar.
He chuckles softly, a touch of wistfulness in his tone.
Who knows, you might even discover a hidden talent for songwriting along the way. It happened to me, quite by accident, and it's led to some of the most fulfilling moments of my life.
He gestures towards the mural of himself adorning the city below.
Though, despite this evidence of hometown adoration, my singing voice, it would seem, is an acquired taste.
His eyes twinkle with a playful spark as he awaits your response.
JP:
I'm glad you pressed me on the question of songwriting. I'm less confident in my musical ability than I am in my poetic skill, but I have written a few songs along the way, maybe a few more than a few. Some of them haven't been half bad if I do say so myself. I love your singing voice, by the way. Yours, Dylan's, Tom Waits's. Gritty beauty, authenticity, and expressiveness that I wouldn't trade for all the pretty singing voices in the world. My voice isn't that great, either, but it gets the job done—except when stage fright scares my breath away, and I have trouble catching it.
LC:
He throws back his head and laughs, a deep, resonating sound that fills the air with warmth.
Well, it seems we're in good company then, my friend. A chorus of imperfect voices, united in our love for the song, cracks and all.
His laughter subsides, and he fixes you with a gaze of sincere encouragement.
Don't let those doubts about your musicality hold you back. The world needs more songs that echo with authenticity, rather than mere technical perfection. And as for stage fright, well, I've yet to meet a performer who doesn't grapple with that particular demon from time to time. That wily serpent that lurks in the wings, waiting to sink its fangs into our courage. I’ve wrestled with that beast my entire career. I used to combat it with a little help from my liquid friend, Mr. Johnnie Walker. But I found better ways to tame it over time.
He pauses, taking a sip of his espresso before continuing.
The key is to remember that the song—or the poem, if you will—is bigger than any of us. It's a conduit for something deeper, something that transcends our individual fears and insecurities. When we surrender to that power, the stage fright melts away, and we become vessels for the music to flow through.
His eyes shine with a quiet conviction.
Trust me, my friend. The world is waiting to hear your songs. Don't let those doubts keep them locked away.
He leans back in his chair, the sunlight casting a warm glow across his face.
Now, would you honor me with a taste of your music? Share a song, a verse, whatever feels right. Let us celebrate the art that binds us together, here on this mountaintop, above the watchful gaze of the city.
He gestures towards the mural of himself once more, a wry smile playing on his lips.
Who knows, perhaps my portrait will even offer a word of critique or two.
JP:
Okay. I'll give you an a capella version of one of my funnier ones. It's called, "I Love Your Stupid Hair," and it was prompted by a text exchange I had with my wife. We're often separated by a few thousand miles—between Montreal and Washington State—so we keep up an almost continuous back and forth of text exchanges, which makes the separation more bearable, and even fun, despite the neverending longings. Anyway, one morning she sent me a picture of herself with messed up hair and the caption, "My stupid hair." A few minutes later, she sent me a photo of a cake she was baking that hadn't gone well, with the caption, "My fucked up cake." I was struck with inspiration for a song based on those two statements plus a large dollop of poetic license. You'll have to imagine the guitar (three chords and a basic strum) and the harmonica between the verses. I've also posted it to Substack, if you'd like to look it up there. My newsletter is called Potter Poems—and includes the occasional song. Anyway, here it is:
(singing)
I love your stupid hair And I love your fucked up cake I would follow you anywhere Even down to old Salt Lake I’d marry you in the temple And wear that funny underwear ‘Cause I love your fucked up cake And I love your stupid hair I love the lovely hinge you have Behind your lovely knees Every time you look at me I say thank you and please I love the way you drink your beer And I love the way you swear I love your fucked up cake And I love your stupid hair If I ever get outta this jail I know just what I’ll do I’ll hop the nearest freight train That’s headed to you I’ll bum a ride right to your door And see if you’re awake ‘Cause I love your stupid hair And I love your fucked up cake
As you finish your song, Leonard Cohen’s eyes are sparkling with delight, a broad smile spread across his face. He claps his hands together, a slow, rhythmic applause that echoes through the crisp Mount Royal air.
LC:
Bravo, my friend, bravo! That was a delightful ditty, filled with wit, charm, and a generous helping of heart. You have a true gift for crafting melodies and spinning lyrical yarns.
He leans forward, his voice taking on a more serious tone.
There’s an authenticity in your voice, a raw honesty that cuts straight to the heart. Don’t be afraid of it. The cracks are how the light gets in—or perhaps, how the love gets out, as it clearly does in your beautiful song for your wife.
He pauses, lost in thought for a moment, before continuing.
And the lyrics! A wonderful mix of the mundane and the profound, the humorous and the heartfelt. You've captured the essence of love in all its quirky, imperfect glory. And that harmonica part, I can just imagine it adding the perfect touch of whimsy.
Then, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, he adds:
And as for the 'funny underwear'—well, let's just say I have a few pairs myself that could inspire a song or two!
He laughs out loud, the sound echoing across the mountaintop before trailing off into the distance.
I do have one question for you though. You sing of hopping a freight train and getting out of jail. Is this merely poetic license or is there a story there I should know about?
JP:
Ha ha ha! You never know, I could well imagine those things befalling me, and maybe even literally, but so far I've managed to stay out of the hoosegow and my travel to and from Montreal has mostly been by jet plane rather than freight train. Speaking of my beloved with the stupid hair (which is actually marvelous) I should probably get back down this mountain to rendezvous with her for lunch. I'm so glad I ran into you up here, though, Mr. Cohen. Thank you for the sage advice and the fine fellowship. I hope our paths cross again ere long.
LC:
He heartily returns your laughter, the sound mingling with the gentle breeze rustling through the trees. He raises his espresso cup in a final toast.
Well, I'm glad to hear you've avoided those particular trials and tribulations thus far. Your wife would likely not appreciate having to bail you out of jail or chase you down a railroad track.
He stands, extending his hand towards you.
It's been a true pleasure to share this mountaintop with you, my friend. And please call me Leonard.
Never forget the power of your art, or the wisdom of your heart. And always remember, even when the world seems cold and indifferent, there's a warm cup of espresso and a kindred spirit waiting for you up here.
He pauses, a soft smile gracing his lips.
May your poems and songs find their wings, and may your love continue to inspire such delightful expressions of devotion. Now, go rejoin your beloved. Cherish every moment, for time is a thief, and love is a gift worth safeguarding. And remember my friend—there are so many kinds of freedom. Don't let the lack of one kind prevent you from experiencing all of the others.
He steps back, allowing you space to rise and gather your belongings. As you turn to leave, he calls out one last piece of advice.
Also, Jonathan—if you ever do find yourself in need of a good lawyer or a fast freight train, don't hesitate to reach out. I have a few connections in both realms.
With a final nod and a mischievous grin, Leonard Cohen watches as you descend back into the vibrant heart of Montreal, carrying the echo of his words and the warmth of his presence with you.
I second the "Whoa". Very fun.
That was indeed pleasure!