April 11: The Nobel Prize, Psalm 34, Green Monster

Anyone who has been reading this blog for any length of time knows I have a little problem with jealousy.  It's not uncontrollable.  I just choose not to control it very often.  The form this jealousy usually takes is sarcastic comments about people who have received awards, publication, kind words, a free hot dog.  It's not that the people don't deserve what they've received.  It's just that I think I deserve it more.  It's even worse when the person recognized is humble and well-liked.  Then I just look like an asshole when I let the green monster out of its cage.

That didn't happen to me today.  What inspired this little post (and poem) was a story I heard on the radio this morning about William Faulkner, which discussed his Nobel Prize.  Now, the Nobel is a frequent subject of my blog in September and October, just before the announcement of the year's winner.  Like any writer who has delusions of grandeur, I began daydreaming in the shower this morning about winning the Nobel Prize.  It's one of my favorite pastimes.  (Everybody does this, right?  I said everybody does this, RIGHT?!!)

The last couple of days, I've struggled with my poems, posting them at the last minute and in less than ideal condition.  Today's poem, thanks to my little problem with jealousy and my obsession with the Nobel Prize, came fairly quickly to me, with little hair-pulling.  Thank God.  I don't have that much hair to spare.  I'm still not proud of my issues with envy, but, today, they payed off.

Saint Marty submits his name for your consideration...

Psalm 34:  To the Swedes For Consideration

Dear Ladies and Gentlemen of the Academy,

You may not know my name or work,

My lines of verse, so much like Heaney

In their depth, Faulkner in complexity.

I am writing to nominate myself

For your prestigious award.  I make

My case at this time of year

When you meet behind closed doors

To whittle the list of potential winners

To fifteen or twenty.  I’m sure the standards

Made the cut again:  Joyce Carol Oates,

Chinua Achebe, Alice Munro, Amos Oz.

I’m also sure you’re tired of rereading

Things Fall Apart or Where the Jackals Howl

For the fifteenth or twentieth time.

I know odds don’t favor me. 

I’m white, American, a man, a poet. 

I haven’t lived under a dictatorship, unless

You count eight years of George W. Bush,

Sixteen if you throw in Ronald Reagan.

I didn’t survive the Holocaust. 

I try to do green things in my life,

Recycle cans, bottles, newspapers,

But just last night, I crushed

A milk jug, put it in my trash

Without a twinge of guilt or shame.

I did vote for Barack Obama,

And his speech for the Peace Prize

Got great reviews from everyone.

I promise to act shocked, humbled

When my name is announced next October

In the Great Hall.  I promise to say

Something like, “I’m sure this is a mistake,”

Then name other, more deserving

Authors, Cormac McCarthy, Thomas Pynchon,

In my interviews on NPR and PBS.

And I promise to rent the best tux

In the world for the Prize Ceremony.

Armani.  Hugo Boss.  Gucci.  Prada.

In my lecture on December 7

At the Swedish Academy, I will

Call up the ghosts of winners past,

Camus, Beckett, Neruda, Marquez,

Try to draw attention away

From recent embarrassments

Like Elfriede Jelinek and Dario Fo.

It will be win-win for both of us.

The world will praise you for your

Innovation, originality, forward thinking.

I will no longer have to adjunct,

Teach composition and literature to students

Who don’t know the difference between

A comma splice and a gene splice.

Remember, then, my name.  Speak it

With your Scandinavian tongues,

Syllables rising, falling like the Alps.

I will compose my acceptance speech,

Infuse it with wit, pathos, charm.

I’ll practice my royal bow, a few words

In Swedish.  I will be ready, armed

With language, “the only homeland,”

To quote Czeslaw Milosz.

You remember him, don’t you?



Faulkner getting his Nobel