I was reading, by some fluke, a book that’s been sitting in the hall waiting to be given away to some charity or other.  On this day, I happened to pick it up on my way out to sit in the October sun.  The name: The Nobel Prize for Literature 1901-1983.  

It’s Always For Others To Interpret

Dylan’s won the Nobel Prize.
You write, you fall, you rise,
Or rise and fall
Pleasing none or all.
You’ve written self…part of…
Round themes of evil, good, dark shadows, love -
All universal;
That, despite the personal,
For I is always you is we
With never objectivity,
But always subjectivity,
Seeing what we need to see.

The ‘prize of prizes’ always questioned
While the choosers are sequestered, and
We never know their standard.

Be yourself!  That’s a command!
You’ll never will, unanimously,
Be a star (though shining brightly),
Idolized by all the masses
(Think of Jesus).

You can just write for self alone,
Not cloning some source you admire.
Others will attire you
With clothes of their imagining,
Projecting who and what they are.
Your star will always be you
Till you die and after.

It’s Always For Others To Interpret 10.14.2016
Special People, Special Occasions; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin