As you may have heard, earlier this year the American singer-songwriter and poet, Bob Dylan, was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for ‘having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition.’ The secretary of the Swedish academy compared his work to that of Homer and Sappho and expressed hope that the news would be received with joy.

And as expected, Dylan’s Nobel win was greeted with a variety of responses, many were delighted by what they regarded as a long overdue recognition of talent, including President Barack Obama, Bruce Springsteen and me, whilst others took a more disapproving stance, claiming that Dylan was fundamentally a musician, not a poet and therefore did not deserve such an accolade.

With that in mind, let us examine the argument put forward by those critics: that Bob Dylan’s songs cannot be considered literature.

Okay, now let’s remind ourselves that some of the earliest forms of poetry were lyric poetry and consider that argument again. In Dylan’s work, words and music are undoubtedly intertwined. It’s poetry written to be performed, to be enhanced by and delivered through music.

Songs such as Mr Tambourine Man’, ‘Desolation Row’ and ‘Hard Rain’ draw influence from the spontaneous style of Kerouac and the symbolism of Rimbaud. They display, as Patti Smith puts it, a ‘Rimbaudian mastery of language with a deep understanding of the causes of suffering and ultimately human resilience.’

Hard Rain itself was partly influenced by the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 and another Dylan song: ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ is widely recognised as the anthem of the 1960s civil rights movement. This goes to show that Dylan’s work is not only poetically accomplished, but also politically nuanced and historically significant. Dylan’s songs have been the soundtrack of the last century and continue to provide truth and influence a new generation of poets.

Bob Dylan has never been a songwriter in the classical sense and is by no means a traditional poet, so it only seems fitting for some to find his brand of literature hard to define and label, but since when has ground breaking art been conventional? There is no doubt that Dylan’s work bears the defining traits of great literature, for over half a century, he has produced lyrical and narrative masterpieces that have defied expectations and set new precedents.

So if Dylan’s Nobel win is hard for some to swallow, then perhaps it’s time for them to realise that the times are a-changing, time to realise that literature is dynamic and boundless and acknowledge Bob Dylan as a rare and exceptional writer.


Bob Dylan at his typewriter


A Message to An Older Me

Since National Poetry Day 2016 is just around the corner (6th October) here is a poem I wrote in relation to this years theme of Messages.

A Message to An Older Me

You must have frost between your joints now,
you find that the days run like clockwork and it’s
left a t ic k i n g insanity
teasing the mines in your head
your hands are tired, but so is everyone else
it’s not romantic anymore and it’s a bore to talk about
the glass is seldom lonely and the morning turns grey
with the soft sweet murmur of last night’s liquor

it’s been years
so I guess the kids can go a week without calling
now that they’re twenty-two
they’re out changing a world you finally thought you knew
you believed me once, or have you forgotten?
it’s me, don’t you see?
it’s me – I’m you
and you should listen, old lady, you should listen
I am young
a lot younger than you

I see an ageless dance in the sweet silver of today
in the space between the leaves
there is always a lucky piece of blue
now tip your chin up towards a shredded sky and wave
to a dawn of immortal flimsy gold
and never doubt
we are always part of The Movement
the world is loud
the world is old but life is young
and the best of times don’t leave the stage until the play is done

This is an original poem by Vivien Lin, if you wish to share or publish it elsewhere, please make me aware of this by emailing me for consent. 



Lunch Poems has been published for over half a decade now, but still retains it’s youth. Published in 1964 by City Lights Books, Lunch Poems remains O’Hara’s most icon collection of work.

It was written during O’Hara’s time in Manhattan, having graduated from Harvard and arrived on the scene to become a key member of the New York School, which also included the likes of John Ashbery and other painters and poets.

1964 saw America on the precipice of a new, modern age, but society had not quite tipped over the edge yet. O’Hara’s Lunch Poems represented much of what a modern America would be.

The collection is rich with contemporary vocabulary and runs like a subway from destination to destination, from one event to the next like an endless stream.

Poems such as ‘Steps,’ highlights O’Hara’s uncomplicated romantic voice:

oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and to drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much

Unlike more traditional poetry, O’Hara’s work delivers emotion through simplicity and and lighthearted irony, which often conveys evident loneliness and sentimentality in his poems.

Lunch Poems successfully depicts life in the city, it portrays a colourful, human urban environment, swollen with the intense juices of life. O’Hara shows appreciation for fine art, such as operas, which comes as not surprise, as he was often seen as a ‘poet among painters.’ O’Hara was a curator at the Museum of Modern Art and was surrounded by revolutionary artists. Similarly, his poetry was rich with the colours and textures of busy Manhattan.

Finally, as a reader on the 21st century, I think it’s safe to say that Lunch Poems has not aged since it’s 1964 publication, O’Hara’s modern artistic style and his interpretation of his city remains alive and relevant today. I like to keep my Pocket Poet Series of Lunch Poems with me when travelling, especially in the city. I’d like to see the center of life as Mr O’Hara did.


There were only four rooms on the sixth floor of the Clearview Hotel. Phillip Eastwood had designed the level before five too many shots of tequila on his twenty-sixth birthday killed him. They’d built the floor the way he’d drawn it as a memorial and named the four rooms after his four Siberian cats, because he had no children or distinctive achievements, apart from dying in a hurricane of neon signs and his own vomit.

Allister Web, more commonly known as The Spider, occupied The Rusty Suite, which was located to the left of The Shrimps Suite, which, very fittingly, housed Mrs P. Haddock. On the opposite side of the corridor, there resided two people who had spoken just once and then never conferred again.

From the moment he saw Gregory Valentine, Nate Silverman could not shake the feeling that, even on a different coast, he still shared a wall with his father.

This was what he thought of on his last day at the hotel, with his eyes fixed on a grey thread of dust by his lampshade and his forehead pulled back into an absentminded frown, Nate’s thoughts streaked through eight states, all the way back home.

He stood, poised outside his front door with one fist raised to knock, like he expected someone to answer. Noiselessly, he turned the brass knob, stepped in, and stopped.

‘Happy birthday, Nate,’ Mr Silverman bellowed from his dining room, two months after his son’s nineteenth birthday.

Nate eyed the gargantuan store brought cake that had been clumsily hacked into crumbling squares. A whole lemon had found its way into the lemonade jug, bobbing and struggling to stay afloat, drowning in a sickly sweet froth. The pearl of light in the top right corner of his father’s eyes made him look like a madman.

Nate let his bag drop to the floor with a thud as his father waited for his reaction, the hand that still held the cake knife trembling with anticipation. Nate sat down, one hand gripping the table leg and the other half stretched out towards the front door, grasping at the lingering strands of reality that licked his fingertips until they stung.

He thought he should visit them, the others, and bid them farewell. He’d see to Mrs Haddock first, she talked like tomorrow would steal her vocal chords, regardless of who was listening. Nate could hear her clarion voice now; it made the wall that faced her room hum like an electric fence.

‘Nate?’ Mrs Haddock’s voice blared out like a siren. Inches away from her door, Nate winced.

‘Yeah, it’s me.’

‘Well come on in, I’ve been waiting for you,’ Mrs Haddock rambled on as Nate let himself in ‘you know I can’t get far with my knees, else I’d walk right on over to your room and murder you for not visiting me.’

‘Well, yes I’m sorry,’ Nate said ‘but, you see, I’ve got this condition with my knees too, they pop right out of their sockets whenever I take a step and then swell up like balloons, you wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had to adjust these bad boys coming across the corridor just now.’

Mrs Haddock let a smile breach her stern expression as Nate sat on the edge of her bed and knocked his knees together repeatedly.

‘Oh, you are terrible,’ she swiped at him, aiming for his leg, but brushing his shoulder instead.

Mrs Haddock was old, Nate knew that the first time they spoke, but she had not a single strand of grey hair or age spot. Her lips, coloured scarlet each day, still had some kind of youthful fullness to them and the nape of her neck remained smooth as glass.

She barely looked a day past thirty, but had he asked her who currently resided in the White House, she would have said Wilson. It was only her legs that betrayed her, they could barely keep her upright and Nate knew they had sentenced her to several life times in this suite

‘I can’t stay long,’ Nate said, holding tightly onto the hand that rested on his leg, but being careful not to grip tightly, even though he wanted to.

‘Will you come over here and talk to me again tomorrow?’ Mrs Haddock inquired as Nate began to leave, he paused and honesty stole tact from him.

‘No, I don’t think I will.’

Fingering her pearls, Mrs Penny Haddock smiled like a ten-tonne truck had not stolen her dancing legs over a lifetime ago.

‘I’d hoped you’d say that.’

It happened again the next day, and the next and the next. Nate would come home to a bizarre birthday welcome; sometimes Mr Silverman would even go as far as to tie half inflated balloons to the front fence, which Nate untied hastily as soon as he got home, in case the neighbours saw.

Each day, before he left the house, Nate reminded his father that today was just a normal day, not a celebration, not a special occasion, but each day he would forget again. According to Mr Silverman, Nate was thirty-nine years old when he was made redundant for arguing with his boss about his own name.

By the time his son was middle aged, Nate had stopped trying to remind him and locked the front door each morning instead.

Nate leant against The Spider’s door for a few moments after leaving Mrs Haddock to the sound of her own voice. He felt his perspective shrinking; his world was a peach stone, with only a fissure between Oregon and New York. The walls pinched and collapsed inwards like crumpled napkins, but this time, he refused to follow their example.

‘Nathan Eldred Silverman, I can hear you thinking from all the way over here.’ The Spider’s voice came from the other side of the door, Nate’s middle name was actually Caleb, but The Spider really didn’t care. He pushed open the door to the Rusty Suite and stepped in.

Since arriving, The Spider had terraformed the once immaculate hotel room into an alien landscape. Splintered plastic littered the torn carpet and a drum-kit slumped against the back wall like a beggar, a gold curtain tassel draped on the crash cymbal.

‘So you’re out of here.’ The Spider scratched a hangman stick figure into his guitar lacquer and blew off the residue before leaning back to observe his handy work.

‘I just came by to say bye,’ Nate leant against the wall tentatively; the room seemed to emanate the same restless energy that The Spider did. ‘And, uh, maybe I’ll see you soon, on the cover of Rolling Stone or something.’ Allister scoffed and flicked a lime green pick across the room with a deft hand.

‘Oh please, that ship sailed before you were born,’ Nate stopped himself from pointing out that The Spider was barely twenty. His brain was so vast that it would take you fifty lifetimes to explore it, but you didn’t bother, because his unfathomable arrogance made him unlikable even to his own mother.

‘Sometimes I think about calling home,’ a silence followed as Nate tried to conjure a response to Allister’s unexpected confession. He lay on the rumpled covers, insolent green eyes darting across the ceiling; the arm that hung off the side facing Nate was flecked with old track marks.

‘Where’s home?’


Nate turned this new information around in his head, ‘I’m sure Minnesota misses you.’

‘I’m sure you’re wrong,’ Allister snickered as he said it and finally turned to face him. ‘I’m also pretty sure you want to bludgeon me alive, so you better get going,’

Nate didn’t expect him to cry when he told him, but he did, mercury tears pooled in his eyes and dripped off his chin like a broken faucet.

‘I can’t look after you here,’ Nate paced around the kitchen table, exasperated. ‘I mean look at you, dad, just look.’ He jerked open the fridge to reveal the ludicrous amount of kiwi fruit that occupied it and slammed it shut again. ‘What are you doing?’

With his head bowed and tears dripping steadily onto the table cloth, Mr Silverman said nothing

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Nate ran an eye over the wilted sandwiches and week old bowl of trifle that took pride place in the centre of the dining table ‘it’s for the best, this way I know that you’re not going to be in danger when I’m not around.’


Nate didn’t say goodbye to Gregory Valentine in the end, he opened the old man’s door and saw him ironing the same two creases out of the back of a blazer over and over again, his arthritic fingers fumbling the iron. It took ten minutes before Valentine noticed Nate stood watching him.

‘What it is?’ Mr Valentine eyed Nate with suspicion, he had these washed out blue eyes that used to be bright, but had now faded like the rest of him. Decades of neat lawns and clean gutters, but no one to share them with had gouged cavernous creases into his face. Gregory was old enough to be Mr Silverman’s father, but the familiarity left Nate winded.

‘Nothing, Mr Valentine, I’m sorry to disturb you.’

Mr Silverman died nine months after checking into the local nursing home, by then his son had disappeared.

New York had never looked so full, the street was heaving with people as Nate stepped out of the hotel lobby, even though it was nearing midnight.

‘Hey kid, are you okay?’ a street vendor tapped Nate on the shoulder and looked up at the Clearview Hotel.

‘I’m fine.’

‘They’ve been meaning to knock this place down for decades, you know,’ the street vendor gestured towards the hotel.

‘Knock it down?’

‘Yeah, it’s been abandoned since like the 1920s, but no one’s got around to it for some reason.’

‘But people still live there,’ the street vendor fixed him with an incredulous expression.

‘Are you kidding me, the windows are smashed and all, the place is a goddamn ruin.’

‘But it’s-‘Nate stopped himself and stepped back onto the pavement ‘right, uh, thanks.’

A few streets down, Nate turned back to spot the Clearview Hotel’s neon sign, so red that it seemed to scald the indigo sky.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Nate approached a police officer stood outside Mary Goldberg’s Flowers ‘I’m looking for a place called Clearview Hotel, could you tell me if I’m anywhere near?’

‘It’s just a few blocks down, are you a photographer or something?’

‘Yeah, yeah I am, how’d you know?’ Nate lied.

‘I’m always having you guys asking me about that old place, it’s the most photographed abandoned building in the city, you know.’

‘No I didn’t.’

Nate turned back to face the Clearview Hotel and thought he could hear The Spider wailing on his drums, he thought of how the hotel, in all its forty story splendor, would never be big enough to contain Allister Web. Nor could it banish Penny Haddock, who still dreamt rosy dreams about dancing on Ninth Avenue, from his memory.

He looked around him and wondered who else knew the Clearview Hotel as an active establishment, because he couldn’t be the only one who made it out.

He felt brand new, no longer hiding in plain sight, he was new. In this sleepless city, that Mrs Haddock had known as a world of speak easies and jazz, where Allister Web had injected oblivion into his bloodstream, Nate could so easily have felt lost, but he wasn’t. He wanted to know what was playing in the theatre, he wanted to visit a cocktail bar and meet a smiling stranger, to leave the room.

In the warm glow of New York’s nocturnal lights, Nate came to the realisation that all the days, even the bad ones, had been special occasions, and that his father had it right all along.

By Vivien Lin

A winning entry of the Stratford upon Avon Literary Festival Poetry and Short Story Competition 2016.

(Entry was included in winning anthology, however was not awarded the category prize.)


If you’re a writer like me, I think the title of this post really speaks for itself. A few days ago, I posted a picture of a blog post in the drafting process on this website’s Instagram (@thereis_nowhy- if you want to follow.) Since then, that post has been drafted and re-drafted and now, is completely dismissed. I may revisit the idea another time, but for now, it’s moot.

I’ve discarded entire collections of poetry, short stories and countless blog posts in the name of self-doubt. I am duly surprised that this post made it to the internet. Like many of my fellow writers, I scrutinise every detail and sentence, and eventually, question the entire concept of my work and deem it void of purposeful content.

And I guess this has its silver linings, because I’m learning to edit and adapt and craft meaningful content. However, on the other hand, this infuriating cycle of work and abandonment leaves me a drained writer and a sorry excuse of a blogger.

At 16, the time I dedicate to writing does not exceed more than half a dozen hours a week, as much as I would like to, I am not a full-time blogger and writer. My energy and motivation comes in unpredictable surges, I create a months worth of content within a few hours, publish it in a wild frenzy of excitement and revel in the smattering of comments left. Alternatively, I abandon my blog for months, neglect my unstructured schedule and leave people wondering where I’ve been. (sorry)

Although I’m confident that I’m not the only young writer who has trouble being consistent, I’m sure there are some writers, either young or experienced, out there who have strict disciplines when it comes to writing and follow structures that help then produce a steady stream of content. I’m not striving for military discipline, and as much as I am in love with the notion of spontaneous prose and Kerouac’s work, I am fully aware of the fact that On The Road is old Jack’s single greatest hit.

Whilst I can, I’d like to nail the art of successful writing, seeing as we are destined to have a life long love affair, and I would like to share this journey with you.

This post is the commencement of a new blog series on this website: WRITE OUR AGE.

Share this post on Facebook and Twitter with any writers who you think may have the same issues and invite them to join the discussion!



Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

it’s no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners

the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn’t need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

I wouldn’t want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days



‘The earth has music for those who listen.’

‘The stroke of death is as a lovers pinch. Which hurts and is desired.’

‘Love me or hate me, both are in my favour.
If you love me, I’ll always be in your heart.
If you hate me, I’ll always be in your mind.’

‘And his unkindness may defeat my life, but never taint my love.’ (Othello)

‘You have witchcraft in your lips.’

‘For she had eyes and chose me.’

‘It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.’

‘She was false as water.’

‘I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed.’

‘Have more than you show, speak less than you know.’

‘I would not wish any companion in the world but you.’

‘My heart is ever at your service.’

‘To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days.’

‘When I saw you, I fell in love and you smiled because you knew.’

‘I will have poetry in my life. And adventure. And love. Love above all.’

‘I do love nothing in the world as well as you: is not that strange?’




RATING: 10/10


‘Never has a book been laughed and wept over so many times.’

‘The greatest satirical work in the English language.’

‘Written with brilliance, echoes with mad laughter.’

I’ve always been a fan of novels based in wartime. Catch 22 is a compelling and humorous read – so damn funny. It definitely makes it into my list of favourite novels, and I’m very grateful that Joseph Heller wrote such a timeless masterpiece for the world to enjoy. Catch 22 is a book everyone should read at least once in their life. Not because you ‘should’ read it, but because nobody deserves to miss out on this genius piece of literature.

the bluest cloud

you came and woke me early today
blue traces in your hair
said the wind had smelt just like the sun
said I could find you there
your sunbeam hands tipped them forward the
driftwood of your conscience
ruckled midnight words of the absurd
borderline of nonsense
you are and will be the greatest thing
i lend my night sky to
all my moonlit sighs of dawn’s first light
they all belong to you
you are enthralled by refulgent flames
planets away from me
constellations sleep behind your eyes
finches yours to carry
laughing the records of ’94
your voice above the keys
glass misted with the breath of a boy
a whisper from the breeze
through the heavy mist of 5AM
the clouds they said to me
the parts of me that fail to reach you
meander in the sea


‘What did my hands do before they held you?’


‘And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.’


‘Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.’


‘Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.’


‘I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.’


‘I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain; and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. To learn and think: to think and live; to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.’


‘Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.’


‘How frail the human heart must be – a mirrored pool of thought.’



They float like lanterns between the trees
An armless clock in the midnight breeze
Enchanted, bewitched in their own white now
Blue traces of the past lost in the folds of love’s gown
Beaten lungs, aching with warning
I turn from the play that comes to town
It’s credits ever changing, the story line stagnant
An invited friend snatches them
Jerks them into a chaotic labyrinth of endless black
They become the underlying stars of the sky
Illuminated by the toxic screams of their hollow walls
Hate punching through tissue thin hearts
He blunders through the cobwebs to search
For the man he was that night
When their wine glasses were rimmed with love
When he cast away the stars for her hand
The ornaments of their contract shimmer like her silver eyes
Trapped in the cracks of his boot soles
The burning rain that seals their fate
Feels like a blessing
On a stranger’s night I saw
Two paper lanterns
Ruined on the floor