Absent: Zakia, Preeti (pulled out at the last minute)
Pamela said it is about the proletariat telling the bourgeoisie 'we're no less than you.' About 40 secs are recorded.
But, in a telephone call on Friday Oct 28 with Sara Danius, the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy, Dylan said: “I appreciate the honour so much,” adding: “The news about the Nobel prize left me speechless.”
And, in a separate interview with the Daily Telegraph – his first since the award – he said he would “absolutely” attend an award ceremony “if it’s at all possible”. Dylan told the paper: “It’s hard to believe … amazing, incredible. Whoever dreams about something like that?”
Bob Dylan did finally accept his Nobel Prize medal for literature, more than three months after the awards ceremony, at a private event in Stockholm on April 1, 2017 before a scheduled concert in the city. A spokesperson said the event went off very well and commented that the 75-year old singer was “a very nice, kind, man’.
He is expected to deliver a taped version of the customary Nobel lecture later. If he does not deliver a lecture by June, he will have to forfeit the prize money of eight million kronor.
Here is a video of Thommo singing for us – it is about 13 mins, consisting of these two songs and you can listen to them by clicking on the link here:
There's a sadness in both poems for the one left behind.
A Psalm of Life
1. I Expected My Skin and My Blood to Ripen
To Some Few Hopi Ancestors
No longer the drifting
and falling of wind,
your songs have changed;
they have become
thin willow whispers
that take us by the ankle
and tangle us up
with red meat stone,
that keep us turned
to the round sky,
that follow us down
to Winslow, to Sherman
to Oakland, to all the spokes
that leave Earth’s middle.
You have engraved yourself
with holy signs, encased yourself
in pumice, hammered on my bones
till you could not longer hear
the howl of missions
slipping screams through your silence,
dropping dreams from your wings.
Is this why
you made me
sing and weep
made to grow another way
this woman is chiseled
on the face of your world.
The badger-claw fo her father
shows slightly in stone
burrowed from her sight,
facing west from home.
Three Thousand Dollar Death Song
Nineteen American Indian skeletons from Nevada …
valued at $3,000.
— invoice received at a museum as normal business, 1975
Is it in cold hard cash? the kind
that dusts the insides of mens' pockets
laying silver-polished surface along the cloth.
Or in bills? papering the wallets of they
who thread the night with dark words. Or
checks? paper promises weighing the same
as words spoken once on the other side
of the mown grass and dammed rivers
of history. However it goes, it goes.
Through my body it goes
assessing each nerve, running its edges
along my arteries, planning ahead
for whose hands will rip me
into pieces of dusty red paper,
whose hands will smooth or smatter me
into traces of rubble. Invoiced now
it's official how our bones are valued
that stretch out pointing to sunrise
or are flexed into one last fetal bend,
that are removed and tossed about,
cataloged, numbered with black ink
on newly-white foreheads.
As we were formed to the white soldier's voice,
so we explode under white students' hands.
Death is a long trail of days
in our fleshless prison.
From this distant point
we watch our bones auctioned
with our careful quillwork,
beaded medicine bundles, even the bridles
of our shot-down horses. You who have priced us,
you who have removed us — at what cost?
What price the pits
where our bones share
a single bit of memory,
how one century has turned
our dead into specimens,
our history into dust,
our survivors into clowns.
Our memory might be catching, you know.
Picture the mortars, the arrowheads, the labrets
shaking off their labels like bears suddenly awake
to find the seasons ended while they slept.
Watch them touch each other, measure reality,
march out the museum door!
Watch as they lift their faces
and smell about for us. Watch our bones rise
to meet them and mount the horses once again!
The cost then will be paid
for our sweetgrass-smelling having-been
in clam-shell beads and steatite, dentalia
and woodpecker scalp, turquoise and copper,
blood and oil, coal and uranium,
children, a universe
of stolen things.
The Parts of a Poet
the pottery goodness
of my body
settled down on flowers
pulling pollen in great
handfuls; full & ready
parts of me are pinned
to earth parts of me
undermine song, parts
of me spread on water,
parts of me form a rainbow
bridge, parts of me follow
the sandfish, parts of me
are a woman who judges.
Safe Haven After Storm
1. The Weary Blues
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
1. A Woman
Autumn Song ￼
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.
Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone,
And why should I stay behind?
A Song of Autumn By Adam Lindsay Gordon