Night risings and fallings filled my mind, free excursions carried out invisibly while the air swung up and back and the starlight rained . . .
It is night. I just came back inside after watching the Aurora Borealis ribbon across the moon. Rising and falling. Raining starlight and moonlight. All that poetic jazz that Annie Dillard is talking about.
Speaking of poetic jazz, at 7 a.m. this morning, I was sitting at my desk, streaming the live feed from the Grand Hall of the Swedish Academy. At the appointed hour, Permanent Secretary Sara Danius stepped through those great white doors and announced the winner of the 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature. She first spoke in Swedish. I don't understand Swedish, but I did understand two words she spoke: "Bob Dylan."
That's right. Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature this morning. Not me. Of course, since the announcement, the Internet has blown up with all kinds of elitist snobbery. Basically, the premise against Dylan winning the prize is this: song writing is NOT literature. The argument in support of Dylan's Nobel: the Swedish Academy expanded the definition of what is considered literature.
Me? Of course I'm disappointed that Ms. Danius did not speak my name this morning. However, since Dylan won this year, broadening the definition of literature, I figure that next year it will be time for a poet blogger with a serious Christ complex to win.
This December, Saint Marty will not be traveling to Stockholm to participate in Nobel week festivities. Next year, however, Sara Danius will speak those fated words: "Eeer borshneer deer Sankt Marty."
|Eerkin feerkins deerpa Bob Dylan|