I Wish I'd Written This

A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall

By Bob Dylan

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin'
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin'
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin'
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin'
I heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin'
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin'
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you meet my blue-eyed son ?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded in hatred
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And what'll you do now my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin'
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are a many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
And the executioner's face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I'll tell and speak it and think it and breathe it
And reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it
And I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin'
But I'll know my song well before I start singing
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Well, I had to, didn't I, now that he's just won the Nobel Prize for Literature?  (Hastily shunting the post I had prepared for this date to a future occasion.)

Many people are complaining that the prize went to a musician. 'The words can't stand alone,' they claim. Well, I do believe it was Dylan's words that the judges considered, and to my mind they certainly can stand alone – though it's good they have had music to carry them to a wider audience, because they are often important words.

How I would love to have written the above, with its power and fury – and, yes, its lyricism. And he was innovative. Those extended sentences, and the repetition of the heavy syllable, 'hard', give it a relentless feel which is all too appropriate.

Two of the criteria for the Nobel Prize for Literature are that the writing should be a force for good (I'm paraphrasing) and have world-wide influence. Anyone who was around in the sixties knows what a huge influence Dylan had at that time, and that he certainly intended to be a voice for change. I chose this particular song because, alas, it is still all too current. It is not nuclear rain which threatens the environment now (though it is not an impossible eventuality) but our environment is still threatened and there are other ways by which whole landscapes die.

Well, this prize is evidently a controversial decision, which is probably a good thing – nice when literary matters spark heated debate! – and opinions will differ. Mine, as you realise by now, is that the prize is not only richly deserved but way overdue. Please feel free to heartily endorse this view in the comments, or take passionate issue with it. (Yes I know, I am being unashamedly biased, but you do get some right of reply, LOL.)

I will conclude with some excellent words from my friend, Aussie poet Lyndon Walker. I think he makes the case very well in support of Dylan's win:

A very controversial decision which I strongly support. A writer who opened up worlds for examination. Deeply questioning the status quo in his own country and forging a new vision of race and sexual relations at a time when these things were in turmoil. Always ahead of the social zeitgeist. ... A writer who veered from gritty clear sighted documentation of social injustice to magic realism of unequalled poetic vision. Worth the prize.

He is not alone in this view. While many people are ridiculing it as a 'category error' on the part of the judges, some high profile poets, novelists and songwriters are applauding the decision. They include Salman Rushdie, Kate Tempest, Billy Bragg and Andrew Motion. Here's the link. 

(And why did I choose this particular album cover by way of illustration? It was my first ever Dylan album, and I still have it – along with a number of others. 'A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall' is on this album.)

Material shared in 'I Wish I'd Written This' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings remain the property of the copyright owners, usually their authors.

I Wish I'd Written This

Three Poems for Carmen
by Lyndon Walker

1. APOLLO BAY – 5am 7th August
The ocean was with us all night
Thunderous and heavy
Rolling over in its sleep
And further out, deep
Full of whales and coldness.

Your tiny sounds as you slept
My creeping through the house so as not to wake you
To write this.
Outside
Barely breathing
The dark, unwoken, world.

2. HER SOCKS
I knew they were her socks when I picked them up
And put them with other things
Into my bag. Two small socks without dislike or suspicion.

She had thrown them off, quickly
To race out across the road
To tell the man
Whose hat had blown off
Where he could find it.
She’s like that.

And when she came back
Leaping at me
Like a silver fish from a stream of pure joy
I lifted the camera I had been playing with
And gave thanks.

3. BECAUSE YOU ARE MUSIC
Because you are music
I drive carefully
Up the mountain road through forest
And patches of light
Into your absence.

When I asked Lyndon’s permission to include him in this series, he kindly supplied a bio:

LYNDON WALKER was educated in Psychology at La Trobe University, the University of Melbourne and Deakin University. Lyndon practices as a Family and Individual Therapist. He undertook a world reading tour in 1994 and in 1996 was awarded the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry. He lives in Carnegie in Melbourne.

(Expanding that a little, from his facebook profile:) He writes poetry, short stories, novels, screenplays and academic works on Psychology and Psychoanalysis. He is a father of one adult daughter.

I first got to know him in the early eighties, when we were both on the Committee of the Melbourne Branch of the Poets Union of Australia, and both had books published by Pariah Press. Pariah was a Cooperative venture requiring meetings and discussions, so in both capacities I learned to value his intellect, wit and generous spirit.

As a performance poet, he could be wonderfully over the top — good lungs for shouting, when required! We no longer live in the same city so I haven’t heard him in recent years, but I imagine it’s still the case. His poems on the page reveal a similar daring, in his willingness to experiment. A free versifier like most of us, he also handles form very well. And as you can see, he is capable of the most tender nuances. Because the above poem mentions music, I’ll round out this little sketch by telling you that he sings in a concert choir called Soulsong.

Details of Lyndon’s books and some individual poems can be found at his website.

Poems and photos used in ‘I Wish I’d Written This’ remain the property of the copyright holders (usually their authors).