Bob Dylan Nobel Prize & Johnny Cash in The New Yorker

[Brownlie]

What do people think about the following developments: 

Bob Dylan won the Nobel prize in literature.

This Johnny Cash Poem was in The New Yorker:

California Poem:

There’s trouble on the mountain
And the valley’s full of smoke
There’s crying on the mountain
And again the same heart broke.

The lights are on past midnite
The curtains closed all day
There’s trouble on the mountain
The valley people say.

[billy]

not sure cash's poem in the new yorker is a development but i'm glad dylan got the nobel. while he his not hermen hesse [thanks god] he was amovement [no dirty jokes please] he was a mold-breaker and in many ways gave the man in the street a taste of poetry through his lyrics. excellent choice.

terry pratchett should be next year's recipient. one of the few writers who drew more than a tear from my eye. humorous ones when he lived, sad ones when he died.

but yes, dylan was a great choice.

[Achebe]

Bob Dylan winning the Nobel prize is not a surprise - just goes to show how far you can go with mediocre shit if you happen to belong to the dominant culture of the time.

[just mercedes]

Bob Dylan winning the Nobel prize is not a surprise - just goes to show how far you can go with mediocre shit if you happen to belong to the dominant culture of the time.

How ironic, to accept this award from The Masters of War.

[Brownlie]

Bob Dylan winning the Nobel prize is not a surprise - just goes to show how far you can go with mediocre shit if you happen to belong to the dominant culture of the time.

Lol. He's alright. I mean there's a respected poetry movement around kerning, so the stuff gets weird. It was either this topic or poptarts that are root beer flavored: http://wtop.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/...5x1254.jpg.

[Achebe]

Bob Dylan winning the Nobel prize is not a surprise - just goes to show how far you can go with mediocre shit if you happen to belong to the dominant culture of the time.

How ironic, to accept this award from The Masters of War.

But dynamite is alright....it's needed for mining and construction as well.

---

Bob Dylan winning the Nobel prize is not a surprise - just goes to show how far you can go with mediocre shit if you happen to belong to the dominant culture of the time.

Lol. He's alright. I mean there's a respected poetry movement around kerning, so the stuff gets weird. It was either this topic or poptarts that are root beer flavored: http://wtop.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/...5x1254.jpg.

This sorta makes the literature prize a joke (it already is, given that only writers in European languages get nominated), tied with the Peace prize. It also makes the Arts a joke, by reinforcing the popular belief that all art is arbitrary, there are no standards, and Eminem, Shakespeare, who cares.

[QDeathstar]

meh. I mean, when you listen to eminem his cadence and rythm are almost perfect. Some of the stuff he is written is pretty amazing from that aspect. I'm not a huge fan, but you have to give credit where it is due. I'm not sure if perhaps i've missed your point, here... but honestly shakespeare is as overated as anything.


Here is an example:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQvteoFiMlg

[RiverNotch]

i don't care too much about lit since the winners are usually well paid already -- cared much more about the medicine winner, and th peace prize, since all that cash goes a long way there -- but i butt in to refute the only european lamguage folks win awards. there's mo yan, tagore, all those expats -- it's just it seems to be the majority, europeans. and honestly, in about a hundred years peeps gonna be putting dylan on the same foot as printworkers like carson -- art is art. shakespeare surely was pop art in his age, or were there televisions in the tudors'?

Bob Dylan winning the Nobel prize is not a surprise - just goes to show how far you can go with mediocre shit if you happen to belong to the dominant culture of the time.

How ironic, to accept this award from The Masters of War.

But dynamite is alright....it's needed for mining and construction as well.

---

Bob Dylan winning the Nobel prize is not a surprise - just goes to show how far you can go with mediocre shit if you happen to belong to the dominant culture of the time.

Lol. He's alright. I mean there's a respected poetry movement around kerning, so the stuff gets weird. It was either this topic or poptarts that are root beer flavored: http://wtop.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/...5x1254.jpg.

This sorta makes the literature prize a joke (it already is, given that only writers in European languages get nominated), tied with the Peace prize. It also makes the Arts a joke, by reinforcing the popular belief that all art is arbitrary, there are no standards, and Eminem, Shakespeare, who cares.

[rayheinrich]

    I remember the end of a bootleg recording from sometime in the mid 90's where Dylan
    said: “Don't know who that was, it wasn't me.”

    Thomas Pynchon: "Literature is for fools.”

    Since Dylan is going to be around as long as Shakespeare or Hitler, why the fuck not.

[billy]

i've never sang along to a reading of shakespeare. whoever 's picked they'll always be someone who would be a better choice. i think dylan did enough to get it.

[RiverNotch]

    I remember the end of a bootleg recording from sometime in the mid 90's where Dylan
    said: “Don't know who that was, it wasn't me.”

    Thomas Pynchon: "Literature is for fools.”

    Since Dylan is going to be around as long as Shakespeare or Hitler, why the fuck not.

Actually, longer already -- I did the math, and Shakespeare died 52, while Hitler offed himself 56. Survival of the fittest --- more antibiotics and psychiatrists. xD

[Achebe]

i don't care too much about lit since the winners are usually well paid already -- cared much more about the medicine winner, and th peace prize, since all that cash goes a long way there -- but i butt in to refute the only european lamguage folks win awards. there's mo yan, tagore, all those expats -- it's just it seems to be the majority, europeans. and honestly, in about a hundred years peeps gonna be putting dylan on the same foot as printworkers like carson -- art is art. shakespeare surely was pop art in his age, or were there televisions in the tudors'?

How ironic, to accept this award from The Masters of War.

But dynamite is alright....it's needed for mining and construction as well.

---

Lol. He's alright. I mean there's a respected poetry movement around kerning, so the stuff gets weird. It was either this topic or poptarts that are root beer flavored: http://wtop.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/...5x1254.jpg.

This sorta makes the literature prize a joke (it already is, given that only writers in European languages get nominated), tied with the Peace prize. It also makes the Arts a joke, by reinforcing the popular belief that all art is arbitrary, there are no standards, and Eminem, Shakespeare, who cares.

Tagore won in 1913 thanks to a mediocre translation, it was a miracle. Do you seriously think that there has been no world class writing in India since then? 
Expats writing in a colonial language don't qualify.  Ok, it's a European prize so I can understand the limitations, but it does make the Literature Nobel a fake Nobel.

That was bad enough, but Dylan? Anyone on this forum can write better poetry. As far as cultural influences go Michael Jackson was bigger.  Or the Gangnam Style guy.

[billy]

" but Dylan? Anyone on this forum can write better poetry."

i can't

as for a fake nobel...that would be a nobel given out by someone other than their foundation. like say ...the oscars...that would be a fake nobel; as far as trolls go you're about as a good as the korean guy

[shemthepenman]

no one deserves it more than Dylan. . . ever. in fact, they should just rename it to the Bob Dylan Prize and just award it to him every year.

and as to anyone on this forum can write better poetry. . . the prize is for literature for a start and secondly. . . no one on this site can write better poetry than Dylan. a poem here or there may be better than this or that Dylan lyric, but that is incidental.

as for Cash:

"Of Bob Dylan"

There are those who do not imitate,
Who cannot imitate
But then there are those who emulate
At times, to expand further the light
Of an original glow.
Knowing that to imitate the living
Is mockery
And to imitate the dead
Is robbery
There are those
Who are beings complete unto themselves
Whole, undaunted,-a source
As leaves of grass, as stars
As mountains, alike, alike, alike,
Yet unalike
Each is complete and contained
And as each unalike star shines
Each ray of light is forever gone
To leave way for a new ray
And a new ray, as from a fountain
Complete unto itself, full, flowing
So are some souls like stars
And their words, works and songs
Like strong, quick flashes of light

From a brilliant, erupting cone.
So where are your mountains
To match some men?

This man can rhyme the tick of time
The edge of pain, the what of sane
And comprehend the good in men, the bad in men
Can feel the hate of fight, the love of right
And the creep of blight at the speed of light
The pain of dawn, the gone of gone
The end of friend, the end of end
By math of trend
What grip to hold what he is told
How long to hold, how strong to hold
How much to hold of what is told.
And Know
The yield of rend; the break of bend
The scar of mend
I'm proud to say that I know it,
Here-in is a hell of a poet.
And lots of other things
And lots of other things.
-- Johnny Cash

[ellajam]

Thanks, Shem, a credit to them both. Impact is rewarded, both a blow to elitism. Of course Johnny had to die first.

My sister got into my mom's car after me and complained about the Hank Williams, .

Dylan is great in concert, except the ones when you can barely understand the garble and can't identify the tunes,  , luck of the draw. But often he is clear as a bell and he knows how to spin those songs a hundred ways. The mix of early tunes through current is staggering, he's poked every sore spot and pleasure point. Everyone should catch him.

And Just Cloudy, I'm sure you're celebrating wherever you are.

[shemthepenman]

Thanks, Shem, a credit to them both. Impact is rewarded, both a blow to elitism. Of course Johnny had to die first.

My sister got into my mom's car after me and complained about the Hank Williams, .

Dylan is great in concert, except the ones when you can barely understand the garble and can't identify the tunes,  , luck of the draw. But often he is clear as a bell and he knows how to spin those songs a hundred ways. The mix of early tunes through current is staggering, he's poked every sore spot and pleasure point. Everyone should catch him.

And Just Cloudy, I'm sure you're celebrating wherever you are.

i have seen him a few times, and you are right, he can be hit or miss live. back in the early days though. . . just amazing.

there is a funny quote by Simon Munnery [who apparently, when told by Stewart Lee that Lee didn't like Dylan, locked him in his flat and played highway 61 on repeat for 12 hours until Lee admitted he was a genius ]. . . anyway, Munnery said:

"there are two views on Bob Dylan. Some say he's a genius. other people say he's a man with an annoying voice. i wasn't sure where i stood on that divide, but then someone told me i've got an annoying voice so i though Dylan's gotta be a genius, hasn't he."

[Achebe]

no one deserves it more than Dylan. . . ever. in fact, they should just rename it to the Bob Dylan Prize and just award it to him every year.
and as to anyone on this forum can write better poetry. . . the prize is for literature for a start and secondly. . . no one on this site can write better poetry than Dylan. a poem here or there may be better than this or that Dylan lyric, but that is incidental.

OK, enough with the hagiography. Here's one of Dylan's 'celebrated' lyrics. Just the first stanza. If it'd been written by Nkrame Karabakh of Torino, it'd be tossed in the dustbin. I won't get into the details of why he's the poster boy of what hype can do for you if you're a pedestrian if influential 60s American singer (at least Woody Guthrie was genuine and Dylan's contemporary Joan Baez had a beautiful voice), but I challenge you to back up your claim with a truly good poem written by this laureate of laureates.

"Masters Of War"

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks.


If that doesn't make you cringe...

"Just like a woman"

Nobody feels any pain
Tonight as I stand inside the rain
Ev'rybody knows
That Baby's got new clothes
But lately I see her ribbons and her bows
Have fallen from her curls
She takes just like a woman, yes she does
She makes love just like a woman, yes she does
And she aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl.

[Todd]

Without any statement about Dylan directly, I was just unaware that songwriting could get the literature prize. I thought it was for novels.

[shemthepenman]

both of those examples are better than anything you've ever written. that's one. but let's say you've taken 2 of the less good exammples of a writer who has written thousands of lyrics and poems. here's one:

Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet ?
We sit here stranded, though we're all doing our best to deny it
And Louise holds a handful of rain, tempting you to defy it
Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there's nothing really nothing to turn off
Just Louise and her lover so entwined
And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind.
In the empty lot where the ladies play blindman's bluff with the key chain
And the all-night girls they whisper of escapades out on the D-train
We can hear the night watchman click his flashlight
Ask himself if it's him or them that's really insane
Louise she's all right she's just near
She's delicate and seems like the mirror
But she just makes it all too concise and too clear
That Johanna's not here
The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face
Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place.
Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously
And when bringing her name up
He speaks of a farewell kiss to me
He's sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all
Muttering small talk at the wall while I'm in the hall
Oh, how can I explain ?
It's so hard to get on
And these visions of Johanna they kept me up past the dawn.
Inside the museums, Infinity goes up on trial
Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while
But Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues
You can tell by the way she smiles
See the primitive wallflower frieze
When the jelly-faced women all sneeze
Hear the one with the mustache say, "Jeeze
I can't find my knees."
Oh, jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule
But these visions of Johanna, they make it all seem so cruel.
The peddler now speaks to the countess who's pretending to care for him
Saying, "Name me someone that's not a parasite and I'll go out and say a prayer for him."
But like Louise always says
"Ya can't look at much, can ya man."
As she, herself prepares for him
And Madonna, she still has not showed
We see this empty cage now corrode
Where her cape of the stage once had flowed
The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes everything's been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain.

or

'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I'll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved
Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail
Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
Now there's a wall between us, somethin' there's been lost
I took too much for granted, I got my signals crossed
Just to think that it all began on an uneventful morn
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount
But nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts
And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mournin' dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation and she gave me a lethal dose
I offered up my innocence I got repaid with scorn
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
Well, I'm livin' in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line
Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine
If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

there are two,

I was riding on the mayflower when I thought I spied some land
I was riding on the mayflower when I thought I spied some land
I yelled down to captain arab, I'll have ya understand,
Who came running to the deck and said boys forget the whale
We're goin' over yonder. cut the engines. change the sails.
Haul on that bowline we sang that melody,
Like all tough sailors do when they're far away at sea.
I think I'll call it america. I said as we hit land.
I took a deep breath. I fell down, I could not stand.
Captain arab he starting writing out some deeds
He said let's build us a fort and start buying the place with beads.
Just then a cop come down the street crazy as a loon
They throws us all in jail for carryin' harpoons.
Aw, me, I busted out don't even ask me how,
I went lookin' for some help, I walked past a guernsey cow
Who directed me down to the bowery slums
Where people carried signs around sayin' ban the bums.
I jumped right in line, sayin' I hope that I'm not late
When I realized I hadn't eaten for five days straight.
I went into a restaurant lookin' for the cook
I told him I was the editor of a famous etiquette book.
The waitress he was handsome and he wore a powder blue cape.
I ordered up some suzette, I said could you please make that crepe
Just then the whole kitchen exploded from boiling fat
Food was flyin' everywhere I left without my hat.
I didn't mean to be nosy but I went into a bank
To get some bail for arab the boys back in the tank.
They asked me for some collateral and I pulled down my pants.
They threw me in the alley, when up comes this girl from france
Who invited me to her house. I went, but she had a friend
Who knocked me out an' robbed my boots an' was I on the street again.
I rapped upon a house with a u.s. flag upon display.
I said can you please help me out, I got some friends down the way.
The man said get out of here I'll tear you limb from limb.
I said you know, they refused jesus, too. he said you're not him.
Get out of here before I break your bones. I ain't your pop.
I decided to have him arrested and went looking for a cop.
I ran right outside and hopped inside a cab
I went out the other door this english man said fab
As he saw me leap a hot dog stand and a chariot that stood
Parked across from a building advertising brotherhood.
I ran right through the front door like a hobo sailor does,
But it was just a funeral parlor and the man asked me who I was
I repeated that all my friends were in jail, with a sigh.
He gave me his card and said call me if they die.
I shook his hand and said goodbye and went back out on the street,
When a bowling ball came down the road and knocked me off my feet.
A pay phone was ringin' and it just about blew my mind
When I picked it up an' said hello, this foot came through the line
Well about this time I was fed up at trying to make a stab
At bringing back any help for my friends and captain arab.
I decided to flip a coin, like either heads or tails,
Would let me know if I should go back to ship or back to jail.
So I hocked my sailor's suit an' I got a coin to flip.
It came up tails, it rhymed with sails, so I made it back to the ship.
Well I got back and took the parking ticket off the mast.
I was ripping it to shreds when this coast guard boat went past.
They asked me my name and I said captain kidd
They believed me but they wanted to know exactly what I did
I said for the pope of eyruke I was employed
They let me go right away, they were very paranoid
Well the last I heard of arab he was stuck on the side of a whale
That was married to the deputy sheriff of the jail
But the funniest thing was as I was leavin' the bay
I saw three ships sailing and they were all headed my way
I asked the captain what his name was an' how come he didn't drive a truck
He said his name was Columbus an' I just said good luck

or maybe

They're selling postcards of the hanging, they're painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors, the circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner, they've got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker, the other is in his pants
And the riot squad they're restless, they need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight, from Desolation Row
Cinderella, she seems so easy, "It takes one to know one, " she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning. "You Belong to Me I Believe"
And someone says, "You're in the wrong place, my friend, you'd better leave"
And the only sound that's left after the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up on Desolation Row
Now the moon is almost hidden, the stars are beginning to hide
The fortune telling lady has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel and the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing, he's getting ready for the show
He's going to the carnival tonight on Desolation Row
Ophelia, she's 'neath the window for her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday she already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic she wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion, her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking into Desolation Row
Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood with his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago with his friend, a jealous monk
Now he looked so immaculately frightful as he bummed a cigarette
And he when off sniffing drainpipes and reciting the alphabet
You would not think to look at him, but he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin on Desolation Row
Dr. Filth, he keeps his world inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients, they're trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser, she's in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read, "Have Mercy on His Soul"
They all play on the penny whistles, you can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough from Desolation Row
Across the street they've nailed the curtains, they're getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera in a perfect image of a priest
They are spoon feeding Casanova to get him to feel more assured
Then they'll kill him with self-confidence after poisoning him with words
And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls, "Get outta here if you don't know"
Casanova is just being punished for going to Desolation Row"
At midnight all the agents and the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone that knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders and then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles by insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping to Desolation Row
Praise be to Nero's Neptune, the Titanic sails at dawn
Everybody's shouting, "Which side are you on?!"
And Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot fighting in the captain's tower
While calypso singers laugh at them and fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much about Desolation Row
Yes, I received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke
When you asked me how I was doing, was that some kind of joke
All these people that you mention, yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces and give them all another name
Right now, I can't read too good, don't send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them from Desolation Row

i could go on. . . actually even a simple one

Maybe, it's the color of the sun cut flat
And coverin' the crossroads I'm standing at
Maybe it's the weather or something like that
But mama, you been on my mind
I don't mean trouble, please don't put me down, don't get upset
I am not pleadin' or sayin', "I can't forget you"
I do not walk the floor bowed down an' bent, but yet
Mama, you just on my mind
Even though my mind is hazy an' my thoughts they might be narrow
Where you been don't bother me or bring me down in sorrow
It don't even matter, where you're wakin' up tomorrow
Mama, you just on my mind
When you wake up in the mornin', baby, look inside your mirror
You know I won't be next to you, you know I won't be near
I'd just be curious to know if you can see yourself as clear
As someone who has had you on his mind

or. . .

Far between sundown's finish an' midnight's broken toll
We ducked inside the doorway, thunder crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing
Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
An' for each an' ev'ry underdog soldier in the night
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Through the city's melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched
With faces hidden as the walls were tightening
As the echo of the wedding bells before the blowin' rain
Dissolved into the bells of the lightning
Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an' forsakened
Tolling for the outcast, burnin' constantly at stake
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail
The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder
That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze
Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder
Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
An' the poet and the painter far behind his rightful time
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
In the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales
For the disrobed faceless forms of no position
Tolling for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts
All down in taken-for-granted situations
Tolling for the deaf an' blind, tolling for the mute
For the mistreated, mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute
For the misdemeanor outlaw, chaineded an' cheated by pursuit
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Even though a cloud's white curtain in a far-off corner flared
An' the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An' for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Starry-eyed an' laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an' we watched with one last look
Spellbound an' swallowed 'til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an' worse
An' for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

or

Of war and peace the truth just twists
Its curfew gull just glides
Upon four-legged forest clouds
The cowboy angel rides
With his candle lit into the sun
Though its glow is waxed in black
All except when 'neath the trees of Eden
The lamppost stands with folded arms
Its iron claws attached
To curbs 'neath holes where babies wail
Though it shadows metal badge
All and all can only fall
With a crashing but meaningless blow
No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden
The savage soldier sticks his head in sand
And then complains
Unto the shoeless hunter who's gone deaf
But still remains
Upon the beach where hound dogs bay
At ships with tattooed sails
Heading for the Gates of Eden
With a time-rusted compass blade
Aladdin and his lamp
Sits with Utopian hermit monks
Side saddle on the Golden Calf
And on their promises of paradise
You will not hear a laugh
All except inside the Gates of Eden
Relationships of ownership
They whisper in the wings
To those condemned to act accordingly
And wait for succeeding kings
And I try to harmonize with songs
The lonesome sparrow sings
There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden
The motorcycle black Madonna
Two-wheeled gypsy queen
And her silver-studded phantom cause
The gray flannel dwarf to scream
As he weeps to wicked birds of prey
Who pick up on his bread crumb sins
And there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden
The kingdoms of experience
In the precious wind they rot
While paupers change possessions
Each one wishing for what the other has got
And the princess and the prince
Discuss what's real and what is not
It doesn't matter inside the Gates of Eden
The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly, totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden
At dawn my lover comes to me
And tells me of her dreams
With no attempts to shovel the glimpse
Into the ditch of what each one means
At times I think there are no words
But these to tell what's true
And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden

. . . oh but then we have mnm. . . yep give it to him. or you. or maybe someone you like. the only thing i feel slightly upse5t about is that Dylan accepted it. is all. but he sold out ages ago, so. i can live with it.

also, mmasters of war, is a beautiful song. and enntirlley harsh. for the time.

oh and just one more for luck

The sweet pretty things are in bed now, of course
The city fathers, they're trying to endorse
The reincarnation of Paul Revere's horse
But the town has no need to be nervous
The ghost of Belle Starr, she hands down her wits
To Jezebel the nun, she violently knits
A bald wig for Jack the Ripper, who sits
At the head of the Chamber of Commerce
Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues
The hysterical bride in the penny arcade
Screaming, she moans, "I've just been made"
Then sends out for the doctor, who pulls down the shade
And says, "My advice is to not let the boys in"
Now, the medicine man comes and he shuffles inside
He walks with a swagger and he says to the bride
"Stop all this weeping, swallow your pride
You will not die, it's not poison"
Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues
Well, John the Baptist, after torturing a thief
Looks up at his hero, the Commander-in-Chief
Saying, "Tell me, great hero, but please make it brief
Is there a hole for me to get sick in?"
The Commander-in-Chief answers him while chasing a fly
Saying, "Death to all those who would whimper and cry"
And, dropping a barbell, he points to the sky
Saying, "The sun's not yellow, it's chicken"
Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues
The king of the Philistines, his soldiers to save
Puts jawbones on their tombstones and flatters their graves
Puts the pied pipers in prison and fattens the slaves
Then sends them out to the jungle
Gypsy Davey with a blowtorch, he burns out their camps
With his faithful slave Pedro behind him, he tramps
With a fantastic collection of stamps
To win friends and influence his uncle
Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food
I'm in trouble with the tombstone blues
The geometry of innocence, flesh on the bone
Causes Galileo's math book to get thrown
At Delilah, who's sitting worthlessly alone
But the tears on her cheeks are from laughter
I wish I could give Brother Bill his great thrill
I would set him in chains at the top of the hill
Then send out for some pillars and Cecil B. DeMille
He could die happily ever after
Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues
Where Ma Rainey and Beethoven once unwrapped their bedroll
Tuba players now rehearse around the flagpole
And the National Bank at a profit sells road maps for the soul
To the old folks' home and the college
Now, I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you, dear lady, from going insane
That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge
Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin' for food
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues, oh right

[Achebe]

Thanks. I'm a shit writer, of course, but I hope I'll never have to write drivel such as the excerpt below. If the above is what you think is great poetry, then I rest my case.
Wait...I'm now getting the feeling that you're having me on. If so, then it's masterful. If not, then...well, let's just say that Dylan should refuse the Nobel and save the world some embarrassment 

Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there's nothing really nothing to turn off