16 September 19 Dylan Thomas

I’m predicting that you will like the poetry presented in this post, because Dylan Thomas, unlike yours truly puts up a good ol’ fight against death. See, for example, his first two selected poems below, the first being, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.” The title of the second selected poem, “And Death Shall Have No Dominion,” speaks for itself in the same tone.

One can almost see him shaking both fists at the grim reaper. In contrast, as anyone who has read my work as all can see, I accept our inevitable ending (and the impermanence of everything), and try to create poetry that tells it just as it is, warts and all, as it’s said. That mostly makes folks uncomfortable, and if there’s one thing humans (in general) like, it’s comfort. But enough about my viewpoint; you can read that on most Monday poetry posts. Back to Mr. Thomas.

Dylan Thomas’ range of expression is remarkable. As noted above, there are the “death” poems. In “Fern Hill,” we are treated to his immense talent in bringing to life colorful details, so bright, we feel we have melted into the scene. And he has a sense of humor; see “The Song of the Mischievous Dog.”

Please enjoy Dylan Thomas. His biography and explorations follow the poems.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

From A Poem For Every Night of The Year– an anthology compiled by Allie Esiri

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.

Dead man naked they shall be one

With the man in the wind and the west moon;

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,

They shall have stars at elbow and foot;

Though they go mad they shall be sane,

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;

Though lovers be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.

Under the windings of the sea

They lying long shall not die windily;

Twisting on racks when sinews give way,

Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;

Faith in their hands shall snap in two,

And the unicorn evils run them through;

Split all ends up they shan’t crack;

And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.

No more may gulls cry at their ears

Or waves break loud on the seashores;

Where blew a flower may a flower no more

Lift its head to the blows of the rain;

Though they be mad and dead as nails,

Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;

Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,

And death shall have no dominion.

From A Poem For Every Night of The Year– an anthology compiled by Allie Esiri

Fern Hill

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
    The night above the dingle starry,
         Time let me hail and climb
    Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
         Trail with daisies and barley
    Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
    In the sun that is young once only,
         Time let me play and be
    Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
         And the sabbath rang slowly
    In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
    And playing, lovely and watery
         And fire green as grass.
    And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
    Flying with the ricks, and the horses
         Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
    Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
         The sky gathered again
    And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
    Out of the whinnying green stable
         On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
    In the sun born over and over,
         I ran my heedless ways,
    My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
    Before the children green and golden
         Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
    In the moon that is always rising,
         Nor that riding to sleep
    I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
         Time held me green and dying
    Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

From Read Me 2: A Poem For Every Day of The Year– an anthology compiled by Allie Esiri

The Song of the Mischievous Dog

There are many who say that a dog has its day,

And a cat has a number of lives;

There are others who think that a lobster is pink,

And that bees never work in their hives.

There are fewer, of course, who insist that a horse

Has a horn and two humps on its head,

And a fellow who jests that a mare can build nests

Is as rare as a donkey that's red.

Yet in spite of all this, I have moments of bliss,

For I cherish a passion for bones,

And though doubtful of biscuit, I'm willing to risk it,

And I love to chase rabbits and stones.

But my greatest delight is to take a good bite

At a calf that is plump and delicious;

And if I indulge in a bite at a bulge,

Let's hope you won't think me too vicious.

 From Read Me: A Poem A Day—an anthology compiled by Allie Esiri

From ‘Under Milk Wood’

Every morning when I wake,
Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,
O please do keep Thy lovely eye
On all poor creatures born to die

And every evening at sun-down
I ask a blessing on the town,
For whether we last the night or no
I’m sure is always touch-and-go.

We are not wholly bad or good
Who live our lives under Milk Wood,
And Thou, I know, wilt be the first
To see our best side, not our worst.

O let us see another day!
Bless us all this night, I pray,
And to the sun we all will bow
And say, good-bye – but just for now!

From A Poem For Every Night of The Year– an anthology compiled by Allie Esiri

The Life

Dylan Marlais Thomas 

(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)

An undistinguished pupil, Thomas left school at 16 and became a journalist for a short time. Many of his works appeared in print while he was still a teenager, and the publication in 1934 of "Light breaks where no sun shines" caught the attention of the literary world. Thomas married in 1937 and had three children. 

Thomas was a teenager when many of the poems for which he became famous were published. Thomas came to be appreciated as a popular poet during his lifetime, though he found earning a living as a writer difficult. He began augmenting his income with reading tours and radio broadcasts for the BBC. 

Thomas first travelled to the United States in the 1950s. His readings there brought him a degree of fame, while his erratic behavior and drinking worsened. His time in America, however, cemented his legend. During his fourth trip to New York in 1953, Thomas became gravely ill and fell into a coma, from which he never recovered. He died on 9 November 1953. His body was returned to Wales, where he was interred at the churchyard of St Martin's in Laugharne on 25 November 1953.

Thomas's refusal to align with any literary group or movement has made him and his work difficult to categorize. Although influenced by the modern symbolism and surrealism movement he refused to follow its creed. Several critics, including Elder Olson, believed that in a postmodern age that continually attempted to demand that poetry have social reference, none could be found in Thomas's work, and that his work was so obscure that critics could not explicate it. On the other hand, he is noted for his original, rhythmic and ingenious use of words and imagery.

His major theme was the unity of all life, the continuing process of life and death and new life that linked the generations. Thomas saw biology as a magical transformation producing unity out of diversity, and in his poetry sought a poetic ritual to celebrate this unity. He saw men and women locked in cycles of growth, love, procreation, new growth, death, and new life. Therefore, each image engenders its opposite. Thomas wrote, "My own obscurity is quite an unfashionable one, based, as it is, on a preconceived symbolism derived (I'm afraid all this sounds wooly and pretentious) from the cosmic significance of the human anatomy".

At one point, Thomas said, “I should say I wanted to write poetry in the beginning because I had fallen in love with words. The first poems I knew were nursery rhymes and before I could read them for myself, I had come to love the words of them. The words alone. What the words stood for was of a very secondary importance ... I fell in love, that is the only expression I can think of, at once, and am still at the mercy of words, though sometimes now, knowing a little of their behaviour very well, I think I can influence them slightly and have even learned to beat them now and then, which they appear to enjoy. I tumbled for words at once. And, when I began to read the nursery rhymes for myself, and, later, to read other verses and ballads, I knew that I had discovered the most important things, to me, that could be ever.” 

Thomas once confided that the poems which had most influenced him were Mother Goose rhymes, which his parents taught him when he was a child.

Exploration 1: Can you identify with Thomas’ statement that he wrote because he fell in love with words?

Exploration 2: Do you think that there is a religious theme running through Thomas’ poetry. If so, can you describe it?

Exploration 3: How do you respond to the imagery in “Fern Hill”?