It’s spring and Greece is like a patient slowly recovering from the recently deposed fascist Colonels whom the U.S.A. supported, breathing again the fresh air of freedom.

Sailing into Hydra’s arching harbor at midday in a daydream of Socratic meandering in the archipelago of the mind until stepping foot on the stone ground of being.

In a stream of light I hike from the waterfront up the narrow path past white cottages leading to a Grecian villa nesting high on the Island’s western slope.

In the morning over breakfast my muse asks if I would like to meet you. “Yes…yes…I want to meet the man who wrote and sang, Suzanne takes my hand…So Long, Marianne

After a short walk down to your two-story wood framed house near the blissful harbor
with its sail boats and yachts we knock on your door and wait patiently until

Suzanne, brunette and beautiful, greets us with a smile and invites us inside.
She feeds us tea and oranges that come all the way from China.

Then in you walk, serenely smiling, and warmly welcome me to your home
You are slender and striking in your dapper linen shirt and slacks.

When I tell you I am a poet too and I revere your words and music,
you glow with gratitude and we share coffee and conversation.

Later we descend to a small windowless room with a wooden chair, a small table
with a typewriter and a cot in the corner facing an open door and an olive grove.

You turn on the record player and we listen to Miles’ Sketches of Spain.
We talk poetry and you tell me about your life in Toronto and Greece.

When it’s time to go I hand you my poems wrapped in brown paper and ask you
to read them. You not only read them but you give me this advice:

“Tomas, the only way to make a living from poetry is by singing it.”
How easy for you to say. You can create lyrical lines and carry a tune.

Leonard and Suzanne stand together in the open doorway as we descend
the path to the harbor where my muse and I lunch on fresh fish and drink retsina.

At twilight as I sit alone at a café on the waterfront sipping ouzo a contact lens
falls onto the flagstone floor. I get on my knees in distress and you appear.

Your eyes focus like a laser and you point down to where my lens is resting
on the ground. “There it is.” You say softly pointing to the ground.

Following the trajectory of your slender finger I find my missing lens.
Your vision has restored my sight. Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

One night at the villa another young blond knocks on my door at sundown
and asks me, “Does Leonard Cohen live here?”

Instead of inviting her in and offering her a glass of ouzo, I reply, “Sorry,
Leonard Cohen doesn’t live here. He lives down by the harbor.”

She smiles, says thank you, and disappears into the night. I wonder
how many female fans found their way to your front door?

A year later I see you at an outdoor Hollywood gathering beaming like Buddha.
Phil Spector is producing your forthcoming album, Death of a Ladies Man.

When I see you on the cover sitting between Suzanne and a younger lovely
blond in a café on Hydra the sadness in your lover’s eyes says it all.

tomas