What Bob Dylan Has Meant To Outlaw Poetry

Early yesterday morning it was announced that Bob Dylan had been awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Many people who had been fans of his celebrated. But some others were perplexed. They generally fit into two categories: 1) Those who just never liked or got Bob Dylan 2) Snobs.

Let’s talk about the second group because it is always a pointless exercise to question another person’s aesthetics. If one doesn’t like something, one doesn’t like it. No explanation is required, and many people just don’t care for Bob Dylan. I can easily accept that.

The second group annoys me.

I started to notice their Tweets and Facebook posts at midday. I interact with a lot of different kinds of people, and some are very, very accomplished writers, professors, editors etc. Many of these people opined that the awarding of the Nobel Prize to Bob Dylan cheapened the esteem of the prize and dumbed it down to the point where it meant less than it had before.

Horse shit.

These are the same people that tend to whine that their students and the American public don’t appreciate poetry, read it, or buy books.

Of course they don’t, because you treat them like dullards who are incapable of understanding it. You write indecipherable poetry only you and a few others seem to appreciate, then scoff at the rest of us for not wanting to join in. You pay your bills from the public trough and don’t have to create anything other people actually want to be considered successful, then you mock anyone who does.

I have written here that I actually enjoy the poetry of Rod McKuen.

I edit two publications: Outsider Poetry and Zombie Logic Review, where my editorial policy is generally if a poet has expressed themself clearly and with some sort of originality and energy, they get published.

Back to Bob Dylan. He has inspired me as a poet from an early age. This is probably my favorite example of his lyrics as poetry…

“It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)”

Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child’s balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying.

Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fools gold mouthpiece
The hollow horn plays wasted words
Proved to warn
That he not busy being born
Is busy dying.

Temptation’s page flies out the door
You follow, find yourself at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover
That you’d just be
One more person crying.

So don’t fear if you hear
A foreign sound to you ear
It’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing.

As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don’t hate nothing at all
Except hatred.

Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their marks
Made everything from toy guns that sparks
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It’s easy to see without looking too far
That not much
Is really sacred.

While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
Goodness hides behind its gates
But even the President of the United States
Sometimes must have
To stand naked.

An’ though the rules of the road have been lodged
It’s only people’s games that you got to dodge
And it’s alright, Ma, I can make it.

Advertising signs that con you
Into thinking you’re the one
That can do what’s never been done
That can win what’s never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you.

You loose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand without nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks
They really found you.

A question in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit to satisfy
Insure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not forget
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to.

Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to.

For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despite their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something
They invest in.

While some on principles baptized
To strict party platforms ties
Social clubs in drag disguise
Outsiders they can freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God Bless him.

While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society’s pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he’s in.

But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone that lives in a vault
But it’s alright, Ma, if I can’t please him.

Old lady judges, watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To push fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn’t talk, it swears
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phony.

While them that defend what they cannot see
With a killer’s pride, security
It blows the minds most bitterly
For them that think death’s honesty
Won’t fall upon them naturally
Life sometimes
Must get lonely.

My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards
False gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough
What else can you show me ?

And if my thought-dreams could been seen
They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only.

-Bob Dylan
I think Bob Dylan is an excellent choice for the Nobel Prize in Literature, and his choice has been a great representation of America to a world audience that now considers Americans backwards, violent dimwits.

 

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