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'Mortal as I am, I know that I am born for a day. But when I follow at my pleasure the serried multitude of the stars in their circular course, my feet no longer touch the earth.'
these lyrics my mother sent me this morning, after we'd talked a bit about the media campaign that scorches the earth now to stop Trump.
Oh the foes will rise With the sleep still in their eyes And they’ll jerk from their beds and think they’re dreamin’ But they’ll pinch themselves and squeal And know that it’s for real The hour when the ship comes in
Personally I dont know a better 20th century poet.
I know of poets who have written work as good, or maybe better but not of this volume, consistency and philosophical depth.
I'd compare him to Dostoyevsky sooner than I'd compare any 20th century US literator to a Russian - Dylans soul is vast and entirely human. The only rock artist that ever wrote a lyrics worth remembering except Jim Morrison. But he's better than Morrison, if I just count the structure of his writing. He has the best rhymes too, I think.
The prize was well deserved, even though the committee has been degraded by giving out peace prizes to warcriminals, this is at least sane.
The lyrics above are perfectly descriptive of what is happening to the Clinton type now. Dylan was never a "liberal", of course, he is entirely existentialist.
Last edited by Fixed Cross on Fri Oct 14, 2016 10:30 am; edited 3 times in total
individualized Tower
Posts : 5737 ᚠ : 6982 Join date : 2011-11-03 Location : The Stars
Subject: Re: Dylan Fri Oct 14, 2016 10:25 am
Sure, but he's already won awards, and he is a musician. Calling song lyrics poetry is fine, they certainly have poetic value, but in terms of an award specific to literature it seems strange to me.
Honestly, the distinction of lyrics from literature is new to me. I see lyricists like this in the tradition of Homer, Ovid, etc. (By the way, I guess the liberals try to make an anti Trump point with this, but Id always guess Dylan would lean towards Trump. If he is anything it is gritty, bare bones and skeptical.)
individualized Tower
Posts : 5737 ᚠ : 6982 Join date : 2011-11-03 Location : The Stars
Subject: Re: Dylan Fri Oct 14, 2016 10:44 am
I suppose my reservartion comes from how highly I value literature as fiction in novel form. Written fiction novels are a class of their own, I would even feel weird about any poetry winning a literature award. We could have a separate award for poetry, definitely. But novels are unique, written literature as fiction novel form is truly distinct, takes different skills and tells a coherent story over the course of a book. I would separate good poetry from good fiction in terms of style, format, intent and meaning as well as the skill it takes to do both, a totally different skill set. Basically I would like written fiction in novel book form to receive distinctly high praise, but of course poetry deserves high honors too.
individualized Tower
Posts : 5737 ᚠ : 6982 Join date : 2011-11-03 Location : The Stars
Subject: Re: Dylan Fri Oct 14, 2016 10:47 am
I'm not sure if one's outlook described as "liberal" has much to do with it, I've heard liberals both praising and decrying the decision.
I can surely see the point. But Ive usually had zero connection to the narratives and styles of the recent decades of winners of this category, as far as I tried them - to me literature is about narrative, about being able to evoke an arc in the soul, to set a motion in flight, that forever entwines itself with the narratives of ones soul. Granted Ive been a bit overexposed to Dylan due to my mothers love of him, but this also has his narratives exposed enough that I see them peeling open and overflowing with soul.
As a rapper, I appreciate a certain type of rhyme, that comes casually, entirely unexpected, like this, from the song Joey :
One day they blew him down in a clam bar in New York He could see it comin' through the door as he lifted up his fork
this to me is already more deeply the spirit of literature most books. He knows words are souls, truly, and he knows story.
individualized Tower
Posts : 5737 ᚠ : 6982 Join date : 2011-11-03 Location : The Stars
Subject: Re: Dylan Fri Oct 14, 2016 11:03 am
Yes I see your point. I'm still biased though,since even though we can reduce poetry to "novel fiction" in the sense that poetry can still somewhat tell a kind of story (more like a snapshot of one), and we can reduce novel-fiction to "poetry" in the sense that a novel can and should still be somewhat poetic-deeply human and lyrical in its style and imagery, they remain separate things in my mind. Neither better or worse than they other, but converging them into the same category seems to falsify something essential about each one. Maybe I'm just being cranky.
Nah, I think it's a valid objection. But Im just on the other side of it, on account of Dylans particular style of poetry, involving really very long, consistent and only philologically, not semantically poetic structure.
Let me quote two of such songs from one of his albums.
Quote :
Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn, in the year of who knows when Opened up his eyes to the tune of an accordion Always on the outside of whatever side there was When they asked him why it had to be that way, well, he answered, just because Larry was the oldest, Joey was next to last They called Joe Crazy, the baby they called Kid Blast Some say they lived off gambling and runnin' numbers too It always seemed they got caught between the mob and the men in blue Joey, Joey King of the streets, child of clay Joey, Joey What made them want to come and blow you away There was talk they killed their rivals, but the truth was far from that No one ever knew for sure where they were really at When they tried to strangle Larry, Joey almost got hit the roof He went out that night to seek revenge, thinkin' he was bulletproof Then, the war broke out at the break of dawn, it emptied out the streets Joey and his brothers suffered terrible defeats Till they ventured out behind the lines and took five prisoners They stashed them away in a basement, called them amateurs The hostages were tremblin' when they heard a man exclaim Let's blow this place to kingdom come, let Con Edison take the blame But Joey stepped up, he raised his hand, said, we're not those kind of men It's peace and quiet that we need to go back to work again Joey, Joey King of the streets, child of clay Joey, Joey What made them want to come and blow you away The police department hounded him, they called him Mr. Smith They got him on conspiracy, they were never sure who with What time is it? said the judge to Joey when they met Five to ten, said Joey, the judge says, that's exactly what you get He did ten years in Attica, reading Nietzsche and Wilhelm Reich They threw him in the hole one time for tryin' to stop a strike His closest friends were black men 'cause they seemed to understand What it's like to be in society with a shackle on your hand They let him out in '71 he'd lost a little weight But he dressed like Jimmy Cagney and I swear he did look great He tried to find the way back into the life he left behind To the boss he said, I have returned and now I want what's mine Joey, Joey King of the streets, child of clay Joey, Joey What made them want to come and blow you away It was true that in his later years he would not carry a gun I'm around too many children, he'd say, they should never know of one Yet he walked right into the clubhouse of his lifelong deadly foe Emptied out the register, said, tell 'em it was Crazy Joe One day they blew him down in a clam bar in New York He could see it comin' through the door as he lifted up his fork He pushed the table over to protect his family Then he staggered out into the streets of Little Italy Joey, Joey King of the streets, child of clay Joey, Joey What made them want to come and blow you away Sister Jacqueline and Carmela and mother Mary all did weep I heard his best friend Frankie say, he ain't dead, he's just asleep Then I saw the old man's limousine head back towards the grave I guess he had to say one last goodbye to the son that he could not save The sun turned cold over President Street and the town of Brooklyn mourned They said a mass in the old church near the house where he was born And someday if God's in heaven overlookin' His preserve I know the men that shot him down will get what they deserve Joey, Joey King of the streets, child of clay Joey, Joey What made them want to come and blow you away
["Joey", Desire]
Quote :
Pistol shots ring out in the barroom night Enter Patty Valentine from the upper hall She sees a bartender in a pool of blood Cries out my God, they killed them all Here comes the story of the Hurricane The man the authorities came to blame For somethin' that he never done Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been The champion of the world
Three bodies lyin' there does Patty see And another man named Bello, movin' around mysteriously I didn't do it, he says, and he throws up his hands I was only robbin' the register, I hope you understand I saw them leavin', he says, and he stops One of us had better call up the cops And so Patty calls the cops And they arrive on the scene with their red lights flashin' In the hot New Jersey night
Meanwhile, far away in another part of town Rubin Carter and a couple of friends are drivin' around Number one contender for the middleweight crown Had no idea what kinda shit was about to go down When a cop pulled him over to the side of the road Just like the time before and the time before that In Paterson that's just the way things go If you're black you might as well not show up on the street 'Less you want to draw the heat
Alfred Bello had a partner and he had a rap for the cops Him and Arthur Dexter Bradley were just out prowlin' around He said, I saw two men runnin' out, they looked like middleweights They jumped into a white car with out-of-state plates And Miss Patty Valentine just nodded her head Cop said, wait a minute, boys, this one's not dead So they took him to the infirmary And though this man could hardly see They told him that he could identify the guilty men
Four in the mornin' and they haul Rubin in They took him to the hospital and they brought him upstairs The wounded man looks up through his one dyin' eye Says, wha'd you bring him in here for? He ain't the guy! Here's the story of the Hurricane The man the authorities came to blame For somethin' that he never done Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been The champion of the world
Four months later, the ghettos are in flame Rubin's in South America, fightin' for his name While Arthur Dexter Bradley's still in the robbery game And the cops are puttin' the screws to him, lookin' for somebody to blame Remember that murder that happened in a bar Remember you said you saw the getaway car You think you'd like to play ball with the law Think it might-a been that fighter that you saw runnin' that night Don't forget that you are white
Arthur Dexter Bradley said I'm really not sure The cops said a poor boy like you could use a break We got you for the motel job and we're talkin' to your friend Bello You don't wanta have to go back to jail, be a nice fellow You'll be doin' society a favor That sonofabitch is brave and gettin' braver We want to put his ass in stir We want to pin this triple murder on him He ain't no Gentleman Jim
Rubin could take a man out with just one punch But he never did like to talk about it all that much It's my work, he'd say, and I do it for pay And when it's over I'd just as soon go on my way Up to some paradise Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice And ride a horse along a trail But then they took him to the jailhouse Where they try to turn a man into a mouse
All of Rubin's cards were marked in advance The trial was a pig-circus, he never had a chance The judge made Rubin's witnesses drunkards from the slums To the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum And to the black folks he was just a crazy nigger No one doubted that he pulled the trigger And though they could not produce the gun The D.A. said he was the one who did the deed And the all-white jury agreed
Rubin Carter was falsely tried The crime was murder one, guess who testified Bello and Bradley and they both baldly lied And the newspapers, they all went along for the ride How can the life of such a man Be in the palm of some fool's hand To see him obviously framed Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land Where justice is a game
Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell An innocent man in a living hell That's the story of the Hurricane But it won't be over till they clear his name And give him back the time he's done Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been The champion of the world
["Hurricane", Desire]
individualized Tower
Posts : 5737 ᚠ : 6982 Join date : 2011-11-03 Location : The Stars
Subject: Re: Dylan Fri Oct 14, 2016 11:56 am
They're surprisingly story-oriented lyrics and obviously make important points about society and law/policing. And they do develop characters, which is rare to see in a song.. this was more common in classic oldies rock but not usually at this level of detail.
Still, I don't feel differently, but maybe if I read the bulk of his lyrics I would.
Yes, only the whole oeuvre would give the density of a novelists work. You are right, it is oriented in the old tradition - Woody Guthrie is his only spoken of example.
Senor, senor, can you tell me where we're headin ? Lincoln County Road or Armageddon ? Seems like I been down this way before Is there any truth in that, senor ? Senor, senor, do you know where she is hidin' ? How long are we gonna be riding ? How long must I keep my eyes glued to the door ? Will there be any comfort there senor ? There's a wicked wind still blowing on that upper deck There's an iron cross still hanging down from around her neck There's a marcing band still playing in that vacant lot Where's she held me in her arms one time and said, Forget me not. Senor, senor, I can see that painted wagon Smell the tail of the dragon Can't stand the suspense anymore Can you tell me who to contact here, senor ? Well, the last thing I remember before I stripped and kneeled Was that trainload of fools bogged down in a magnetic field A gypsy with a broken flag and a flashing ring He said, Son, this ain't a dream no more it's the real thing. Senor, senor, you know their hearts is as hard as leather Well, give me a minute, let me get it together I just gotta pick myself up off the floor I'm ready when you are, senor. Senor, senor, let's overturn these tables Disconnect these cables This place don't make sense to me no more Can you tell me what we're waiting for, senor ?
Taste cant be argued, but I find Cohen artificial in his lyrics, I can always see how he came up with them. Dylan is always genius, no matter where he goes or what he says.
He's not my favorite musician by any stretch, but he is the non-classical poet that baffles me most.