On the plane above the North Atlantic I watched great fields of clouds sown and harvested by the wind. Later, I traveled through a city as women on gray streets turned their faces from a wild wheel of snow. I am, as always, startled and sus-
tained by these extravagant gestures of weather.

And I stand before you startled. You have chosen one so little known or published, reviewed but once in a smug, cursory paragraph. One read by only a handful.

But your logic is honorable and I accept the prize.

The money is particularly welcome. I would like a fraction of it in dimes and quarters. Some small part will go to the panhandlers of my country: those dressed for the weather and those who are not, those climbing a sober ladder of hours in
front of convenience stores and those sliding into the darkness between planets.

Other winners, George Seferis, Octavio Paz have passed on. It is too late to break bread with them and tell them how much they gave me. Perhaps Derek Walcott or Toni Morrison will spend an hour with me now that I am in their number. Maybe not.

You know by now, members of the Committee, that you’ve exposed yourselves to ridicule by choosing me. A compelling argument rages in objection on six continents. Innumerable candidates are called greater and more deserving. It has been said that Daniel Marlin demeans the Nobel Prize.

You will, I predict, survive these insults.

(I cannot deny that your judgment, on occasion, has been dangerously flawed. I am thus greatly relieved not to be chosen for the Peace Prize and listed in 2 point World Almanac type in the same column as Henry Kissinger, that baritone of carnage.)

Finally, it is the custom here to reflect on literature and on humanity, the irony of one and the blind insistence of the other, a book’s witness upon chaos and the soul’s lucid ritual, the poem’s wrist wound with the selfsame thread of mourning and gratitude, tenderness and rage.

I believe the day is inexhaustible even as human roads are shadowed by death from exhaustion.

I believe love is our only resurgence So many never get the chance.

I believe alertness is the heart’s keel, its irreducible stone, as the industries of distraction and control gather to crush it.

I forget all this so easily, vanity tempts me and the effortless habits of condescension.

Which is part of the reason I come to the poem.

The rest I do not understand.

Thank you.

Daniel Marlin

What is Poetry

Introduction / Gallery / Heart of Ardor / Rabbit Series / Obituaries / Nobel Prize