A few days ago, I found myself, over dinner, telling a friend about these two. So I thought, for his benefit, I’d dig them up. Bjorn wrote the following to a visual prompt:
Once was a heathenish Viking
Adored the fighting and striking
But when coming home
From a killing roam
Knitting was more to his liking
And I answered thus:
This Viking, was quite a go-getter,
And although he was colder and wetter,
While on his way home,
From the sacking of Rome,
He was glad he had knitted a sweater.
…which I eschew. There are a number of reasons for this; however this post is not directly about these reasons. What I find myself pondering at the moment is this: Some awards have cash prizes associated with them. The Nobel, I believe, has as much as a Million of some kind of dollars, pounds, roubles, yen, or pesos. How much would have to be in the award, I wonder before my resolve would fail? My sweetheart says, regarding me, that it would be a lot more than I think it would.
I find such things hard to visualise. I think of the scenario wherein an armoured car falls over and $100 bills go flying all over the road. Would I run around stuffing them in my shirt like many others would? I always thought: “Yes, I would.” But at some point, I realised that I would not. I would, however, watch the scene with morbid fascination. I am not sure when I realised that she was right about this. But came as a surprise when I did.
So, perhaps I should believe my wife in such matters. Come to think of it now, we have both turned down inheritances because there were strings attached. At the time, I thought nothing of it. It seemed second nature to refuse such a thing. (And trust me when I say, that both instances, we most certainly could have used the money. Needed it.) We were not well off–especially not then.
I think I might falter around a million dollars. But my wife doubts it. Sometimes, regarding these awards, someone has no choice. One cannot decline the nomination or the award, one can merely refuse to acknowledge the prise. I am not at all sure what happens to the cash part of the award if one does not accept it; I am not curious enough to look it up. In any case, a sonnet writer is not likely to earn such a prise. And since I probably do not fit the narrative which is desired in the giving of such prises, I doubt very much if I would be a candidate for any such prise, regardless of what kind of art at whatever level of acclaim or notoriety I might earn. Much like Mr. Borges, to which Christian Mahai refers in one of his posts.
As I stated already:
Beautifully written freeverse. I am reblogging this, I think. Very courageous to begin with a quote from Ayn Rand, or any individualist or romantic realist, for that matter.
I am in an artistic mode this evening, and would not like to think in great detail regarding the events or other aspects of this post. I sense this kind of frustration in many many people–even, paradoxically, those would disagree with all of the above. Which, in and of itself, is a sign that, regardless of any indoctrination we may or may not have received, we are still not so different as some would think (or perhaps hope that such differences should be a lever with which to divide us.)
If I Could know or see a life completely
Through a man’s word, written; not unduly;
If, they have been blurred, and are not truly
Yet for me, intended. Nor discreetly,
Read of she, her diary, so sweetly
Not a thread of insight, pathos, nor
A fresh idea, nor hatred even. More
Of which I name, created more Completely?
Even understand it partly? I
Think not. Knows my heart Miller when I read
His Tropic wrought; or Baudelaire to plumb
His Fleurs du Mal? We know, nor care not, why;
And whereupon shall words of men know heeding;
Merely learn what we, must needs, become?
I like this better
After thinking about it
for a few hours.
David Emeron: Sonnets 