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Bob Dylan<\/strong> is the 2016 recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature<\/strong>. His work was specifically cited “for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition”. The honor seems to directly expand the Nobel committee\u2019s definition of literature, since many of Dylan\u2019s lyrics rely on musical accompaniment and his unique voice to deliver the full appreciation of his composition. Yet, Dylan\u2019s poetry is an amalgamation of many diverse influences, and his use of language is often challenging and complex.<\/p>\n Of course, one of Dylan\u2019s most famous songs, \u201cLay Lady Lay\u201d, is grammatically horrendous<\/a>. Some have criticized the honor for this reason alone. But author Salman Rushdie<\/strong> said that \u201cWe live in a time of great lyricist-songwriters \u2013 Leonard Cohen, Paul Simon, Joni Mitchell, Tom Waits <\/strong>\u2013 but Dylan towers over everyone.<\/em>\u201d He embodies the tradition of the great troubadours<\/strong>, commenting on current life and times with wit, insight, and astonishing imagery.<\/p>\n At the start of Dylan\u2019s long career, when he moved from his home state of Minnesota to New York City, he sought out his hero, the folk-balladeer Woody Guthrie<\/strong>, who was dying of Hodgkin\u2019s disease. Guthrie\u2019s songs encapsulated the sentiments of wandering loners and America\u2019s less fortunate in the first half of the 20th<\/sup> century. Possibly of even greater influence on Dylan were the beat poets. <\/strong>As exemplified by authors like Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti<\/strong>, the Beats espoused individualism and criticized authority using freestyle, non-rhyming, highly vivid word play.<\/p>\n I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by For Dylan, this kind of writing offered a freedom to express himself without the traditional constraints songwriters faced.<\/p>\n By combining the political sensibilities of Guthrie and the Beats with Guthrie\u2019s home-spun Americana, Bob Dylan became the singular voice of his generation. He challenged authority, changed consciousness, and defied conventional songwriting. Pop music stylings were tossed away, replaced by a vivid honesty. Gone was the kind of rhyming that merged love <\/em>with dove<\/em>. And, if he could add a dimension of sex to a song through a scatological reference, then grammatical conventions would be ignored.<\/p>\n Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed \u00a9 Bob Dylan Music Co.<\/p>\n Dylan has long maintained that he is not a political poet, although there is no denying that he gave voice to a counter-culture, anti-war movement in the 1960s. As he has developed, and there have been many different periods in his artistic life, the one constant has been his playfulness with language in order to make just the right connection of words. After more than 55 years, he remains an evocative master of his language.<\/p>\n “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)”<\/p>\n Darkness at the break of noon Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn Temptation’s page flies out the door So don’t fear if you hear As some warn victory, some downfall Disillusioned words like bullets bark While preachers preach of evil fates An’ though the rules of the road have been lodged Advertising signs that con you You lose yourself, you reappear A question in your nerves is lit Although the masters make the rules For them that must obey authority While some on principles baptized While one who sings with his tongue on fire But I mean no harm nor put fault Old lady judges, watch people in pairs While them that defend what they cannot see My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards And if my thought-dreams could been seen \u00a9 Bob Dylan Music Co.<\/p>\n
\nmadness, starving hysterical\u00a0naked,
\ndragging themselves through the negro streets at
\ndawn looking for an angry fix,
\nangelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient
\nheavenly connection to the starry\u00a0dynamo in the
\nmachinery of night . . .
\nFrom \u201cHowl\u201d by Allen Ginsberg<\/p>\n
\nLay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
\nWhatever colors you have in your mind
\nI’ll show them to you and you’ll see them shine.<\/p>\n
\nStay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile
\nUntil the break of day, let me see you make him smile
\nHis clothes are dirty but his hands are clean
\nAnd you’re the best thing that he’s ever seen.<\/p>\n
\nWhy wait any longer for the world to begin
\nYou can have your cake and eat it too
\nWhy wait any longer for the one you love
\nWhen he’s standing in front of you.<\/p>\n
\nStay, lady, stay, stay while the night is still ahead
\nI long to see you in the morning light
\nI long to reach for you in the night
\nStay, lady, stay, stay while the night is still ahead.<\/p>\n
\nShadows even the silver spoon
\nThe handmade blade, the child’s balloon
\nEclipses both the sun and moon
\nTo understand you know too soon
\nThere is no sense in trying.<\/p>\n
\nSuicide remarks are torn
\nFrom the fools gold mouthpiece
\nThe hollow horn plays wasted words
\nProved to warn
\nThat he not busy being born
\nIs busy dying.<\/p>\n
\nYou follow, find yourself at war
\nWatch waterfalls of pity roar
\nYou feel to moan but unlike before
\nYou discover
\nThat you’d just be
\nOne more person crying.<\/p>\n
\nA foreign sound to you ear
\nIt’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing.<\/p>\n
\nPrivate reasons great or small
\nCan be seen in the eyes of those that call
\nTo make all that should be killed to crawl
\nWhile others say don’t hate nothing at all
\nExcept hatred.<\/p>\n
\nAs human gods aim for their marks
\nMade everything from toy guns that sparks
\nTo flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
\nIt’s easy to see without looking too far
\nThat not much
\nIs really sacred.<\/p>\n
\nTeachers teach that knowledge waits
\nCan lead to hundred-dollar plates
\nGoodness hides behind its gates
\nBut even the President of the United States
\nSometimes must have
\nTo stand naked.<\/p>\n
\nIt’s only people’s games that you got to dodge
\nAnd it’s alright, Ma, I can make it.<\/p>\n
\nInto thinking you’re the one
\nThat can do what’s never been done
\nThat can win what’s never been won
\nMeantime life outside goes on
\nAll around you.<\/p>\n
\nYou suddenly find you got nothing to fear
\nAlone you stand without nobody near
\nWhen a trembling distant voice, unclear
\nStartles your sleeping ears to hear
\nThat somebody thinks
\nThey really found you.<\/p>\n
\nYet you know there is no answer fit to satisfy
\nInsure you not to quit
\nTo keep it in your mind and not forget
\nThat it is not he or she or them or it
\nThat you belong to.<\/p>\n
\nFor the wise men and the fools
\nI got nothing, Ma, to live up to.<\/p>\n
\nThat they do not respect in any degree
\nWho despite their jobs, their destinies
\nSpeak jealously of them that are free
\nCultivate their flowers to be
\nNothing more than something
\nThey invest in.<\/p>\n
\nTo strict party platforms ties
\nSocial clubs in drag disguise
\nOutsiders they can freely criticize
\nTell nothing except who to idolize
\nAnd then say God Bless him.<\/p>\n
\nGargles in the rat race choir
\nBent out of shape from society’s pliers
\nCares not to come up any higher
\nBut rather get you down in the hole
\nThat he’s in.<\/p>\n
\nOn anyone that lives in a vault
\nBut it’s alright, Ma, if I can’t please him.<\/p>\n
\nLimited in sex, they dare
\nTo push fake morals, insult and stare
\nWhile money doesn’t talk, it swears
\nObscenity, who really cares
\nPropaganda, all is phony.<\/p>\n
\nWith a killer’s pride, security
\nIt blows the minds most bitterly
\nFor them that think death’s honesty
\nWon’t fall upon them naturally
\nLife sometimes
\nMust get lonely.<\/p>\n
\nFalse gods, I scuff
\nAt pettiness which plays so rough
\nWalk upside-down inside handcuffs
\nKick my legs to crash it off
\nSay okay, I have had enough
\nWhat else can you show me ?<\/p>\n
\nThey’d probably put my head in a guillotine
\nBut it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only.<\/p>\n
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