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Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas

1914–1953 · lived 39 years GB GB

Dylan Thomas was a celebrated Welsh poet whose vivid imagery, lyrical intensity, and unique use of language captivated readers worldwide. His work, often characterized by its passionate exploration of life, death, love, and nature, combined a deep connection to his Welsh heritage with a modernist sensibility. Despite a tragically short and often tumultuous life, his poems possess an enduring power and musicality that have secured his place as one of the 20th century's most important poets.

n. 1914-10-27, Swansea · m. 1953-11-09, Nova Iorque

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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 that 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.
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Bio

Identification and basic context

Dylan Marlais Thomas was a Welsh poet and writer. He is widely regarded as one of the most important poets of the 20th century, celebrated for his lyrical intensity, innovative use of language, and exploration of themes of life, death, love, and nature. He wrote primarily in English.

Childhood and education

Born and raised in Swansea, Wales, Thomas grew up in a predominantly Welsh-speaking household, though his father, a fluent Welsh speaker, also taught English literature. Thomas's formal education was somewhat limited, as he left school at sixteen. However, he was a voracious reader and possessed an exceptional natural talent for language and poetry from a young age. He was deeply influenced by the Bible, Welsh folklore, and the works of poets like Wilfred Owen and T.S. Eliot.

Literary trajectory

Thomas began writing poetry in his early teens, and his first collection, "18 Poems," was published in 1934, quickly earning him critical acclaim. This was followed by "20 Poems," "Deaths and Entrances" (1946), and "Collected Poems, 1934–1952" (1952). He also wrote short stories, radio plays (most famously "Under Milk Wood"), and film scripts. His career was marked by a prolific output of poetry, though his personal life was often turbulent, characterized by frequent travel and a struggle with alcoholism.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Thomas's major works include "Do not go gentle into that good night," "Fern Hill," "The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower," and "Death Shall Have No Dominion." His dominant themes include the life cycle, love, sexuality, death, the passage of time, childhood innocence, and the natural world, often imbued with a sense of Welsh landscape and myth. His style is characterized by its lush, sensuous imagery, powerful rhythms, and a unique, often ecstatic, use of language. He experimented with form, but often worked within or adapted traditional structures, infusing them with a modern sensibility. His poetic voice is often passionate, confessional, and incantatory, with a strong musicality that draws the reader in. His language is dense with metaphor, alliteration, and assonance, creating a rich and evocative texture.

Cultural and historical context

Thomas emerged as a poet in the interwar period and achieved prominence during and after World War II. He was part of a generation of writers grappling with the profound social and political changes of the time. While not formally aligned with any specific literary movement, his work shares certain affinities with modernism and surrealism in its exploration of the subconscious and its innovative use of language. His Welsh identity was a significant aspect of his life and work, though he wrote in English.

Personal life

Thomas's personal life was famously tumultuous, marked by his heavy drinking, financial struggles, and a passionate but often strained relationship with his wife, Caitlin Macnamara. His friendships and rivalries were intense, and his bohemian lifestyle often took a toll on his health and his creative output. His relationships and experiences undoubtedly fueled the emotional intensity and raw honesty found in his poetry.

Recognition and reception

Thomas gained international recognition during his lifetime, particularly following his successful reading tours in the United States. His powerful voice and charismatic stage presence made him a captivating performer. While some critics lauded his genius, others found his work overly ornate or self-indulgent. However, his posthumous reputation has grown significantly, solidifying his status as a major poet.

Influences and legacy

Thomas was influenced by the Bible, Welsh mythology, and poets such as Gerard Manley Hopkins, Walt Whitman, and the English Romantics. He, in turn, influenced a generation of poets with his distinctive voice, his lyrical power, and his innovative approach to language. His work continues to be studied and performed, and his poems remain among the most popular and enduring of the 20th century.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Thomas's poetry is often analyzed for its exploration of the tension between life and death, the sacred and the profane, and the individual's relationship with the universe. Critics have debated the extent to which his work is autobiographical, philosophical, or simply a masterful manipulation of language. His themes of mortality and the celebration of life's vitality continue to provoke discussion.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Thomas was known for his public readings, which were often electrifying performances. His work on "Under Milk Wood" was a significant achievement in radio drama. Despite his fame, he often struggled financially, relying on patrons and performing to make ends meet.

Death and memory

Dylan Thomas died in New York City in 1953 at the age of 39, under circumstances often attributed to his heavy drinking and declining health. His death was a significant loss to the literary world. His "Collected Poems, 1934–1952" remains a seminal work, and his legacy as a poet of extraordinary talent and passionate voice continues to thrive.

Poems

49

Holy Spring

O
Out of a bed of love
When that immortal hospital made one more moove to soothe
The curless counted body,
And ruin and his causes
Over the barbed and shooting sea assumed an army
And swept into our wounds and houses,
I climb to greet the war in which I have no heart but only
That one dark I owe my light,
Call for confessor and wiser mirror but there is none
To glow after the god stoning night
And I am struck as lonely as a holy marker by the sun

No
Praise that the spring time is all
Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful
Out of the woebegone pyre
And the multitude's sultry tear turns cool on the weeping wall,
My arising prodgidal
Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire,
But blessed be hail and upheaval
That uncalm still it is sure alone to stand and sing
Alone in the husk of man's home
And the mother and toppling house of the holy spring,
If only for a last time.
354

Find Meat On Bones

'Find meat on bones that soon have none,
And drink in the two milked crags,
The merriest marrow and the dregs
Before the ladies' breasts are hags
And the limbs are torn.
Disturb no winding-sheets, my son,
But when the ladies are cold as stone
Then hang a ram rose over the rags.


'Rebel against the binding moon
And the parliament of sky,
The kingcrafts of the wicked sea,
Autocracy of night and day,
Dictatorship of sun.
Rebel against the flesh and bone,
The word of the blood, the wily skin,
And the maggot no man can slay.'


'The thirst is quenched, the hunger gone,
And my heart is cracked across;
My face is haggard in the glass,
My lips are withered with a kiss,
My breasts are thin.
A merry girl took me for man,
I laid her down and told her sin,
And put beside her a ram rose.


'The maggot that no man can kill
And the man no rope can hang
Rebel against my father's dream
That out of a bower of red swine
Howls the foul fiend to heel.
I cannot murder, like a fool,
Season and sunshine, grace and girl,
Nor can I smother the sweet waking.'


Black night still ministers the moon,
And the sky lays down her laws,
The sea speaks in a kingly voice,
Light and dark are no enemies
But one companion.
'War on the spider and the wren!
War on the destiny of man!
Doom on the sun!'
Before death takes you, O take back this.
351

If my head hurt a hair's foot

'If my head hurt a hair's foot
Pack back the downed bone. If the unpricked ball of my breath
Bump on a spout let the bubbles jump out.
Sooner drop with the worm of the ropes round my throat
Than bully ill love in the clouted scene.


'All game phrases fit your ring of a cockfight:
I'll comb the snared woods with a glove on a lamp,
Peck, sprint, dance on fountains and duck time
Before I rush in a crouch the ghost with a hammer, air,
Strike light, and bloody a loud room.


'If my bunched, monkey coming is cruel
Rage me back to the making house. My hand unravel
When you sew the deep door. The bed is a cross place.
Bend, if my journey ache, direction like an arc or make
A limp and riderless shape to leap nine thinning months.'


'No. Not for Christ's dazzling bed
Or a nacreous sleep among soft particles and charms
My dear would I change my tears or your iron head.
Thrust, my daughter or son, to escape, there is none, none, none,
Nor when all ponderous heaven's host of waters breaks.


'Now to awake husked of gestures and my joy like a cave
To the anguish and carrion, to the infant forever unfree,
O my lost love bounced from a good home;
The grain that hurries this way from the rim of the grave
Has a voice and a house, and there and here you must couch and cry.


'Rest beyond choice in the dust-appointed grain,
At the breast stored with seas. No return
Through the waves of the fat streets nor the skeleton's thin ways.
The grave and my calm body are shut to your coming as stone,
And the endless beginning of prodigies suffers open.'
338

In My Craft or Sullen Art

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art
328

The Conversation of Prayer

The conversation of prayers about to be said
By the child going to bed and the man on the stairs
Who climbs to his dying love in her high room,
The one not caring to whom in his sleep he will move
And the other full of tears that she will be dead,


Turns in the dark on the sound they know will arise
Into the answering skies from the green ground,
From the man on the stairs and the child by his bed.
The sound about to be said in the two prayers
For the sleep in a safe land and the love who dies


Will be the same grief flying. Whom shall they calm?
Shall the child sleep unharmed or the man be crying?
The conversation of prayers about to be said
Turns on the quick and the dead, and the man on the stair
To-night shall find no dying but alive and warm


In the fire of his care his love in the high room.
And the child not caring to whom he climbs his prayer
Shall drown in a grief as deep as his made grave,
And mark the dark eyed wave, through the eyes of sleep,
Dragging him up the stairs to one who lies dead.
325

Clown in the Moon

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.


I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.
324

Ears in the Turrets Hear

Ears in the turrets hear
Hands grumble on the door,
Eyes in the gables see
The fingers at the locks.
Shall I unbolt or stay
Alone till the day I die
Unseen by stranger-eyes
In this white house?
Hands, hold you poison or grapes?


Beyond this island bound
By a thin sea of flesh
And a bone coast,
The land lies out of sound
And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish
Disturbs this island’s rest.


Ears in this island hear
The wind pass like a fire,
Eyes in this island see
Ships anchor off the bay.
Shall I run to the ships
With the wind in my hair,
Or stay till the day I die
And welcome no sailor?
Ships, hold you poison or grapes?


Hands grumble on the door,
Ships anchor off the bay,
Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger,
Shall I welcome the sailor,
Or stay till the day I die?


Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,
Hold you poison or grapes?
318

Why East Wind Chills

Why east wind chills and south wind cools
Shall not be known till windwell dries
And west's no longer drowned
In winds that bring the fruit and rind
Of many a hundred falls;
Why silk is soft and the stone wounds
The child shall question all his days,
Why night-time rain and the breast's blood
Both quench his thirst he'll have a black reply.


When cometh Jack Frost? the children ask.
Shall they clasp a comet in their fists?
Not till, from high and low, their dust
Sprinkles in children's eyes a long-last sleep
And dusk is crowded with the children's ghosts,
Shall a white answer echo from the rooftops.


All things are known: the stars' advice
Calls some content to travel with the winds,
Though what the stars ask as they round
Time upon time the towers of the skies
Is heard but little till the stars go out.
I hear content, and 'Be Content'
Ring like a handbell through the corridors,
And 'Know no answer,' and I know
No answer to the children's cry
Of echo's answer and the man of frost
And ghostly comets over the raised fists.
310

Not From This Anger

Not from this anger, anticlimax after
Refusal struck her loin and the lame flower
Bent like a beast to lap the singular floods
In a land strapped by hunger
Shall she receive a bellyful of weeds
And bear those tendril hands I touch across
The agonized, two seas.
Behind my head a square of sky sags over
The circular smile tossed from lover to lover
And the golden ball spins out of the skies;
Not from this anger after
Refusal struck like a bell under water
Shall her smile breed that mouth, behind the mirror,
That burns along my eyes.
301

Especially When the October Wind

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.


Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.


Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.


Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
302

Quotes

40

Videos

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