Tag: Dylan Thomas

Poem in October for Sarah

Sunday, 29 October, 2017 0 Comments

Poem in October by Dylan Thomas is dedicated to Sarah Fitzgerald, who has not yet reached her thirtieth year to heaven. “And I rose / In rainy autumn / And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.” Happy birthday, Sarah.

Poem in October

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water–
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill’s shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.

And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart’s truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year’s turning.

Dylan Thomas (27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)


Michael Fitzgerald: who would have been 99 today

Sunday, 17 September, 2017 0 Comments

“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.”

Dylan Thomas

Michael Fitzgerald (17 September 1918 – 2 April 2011): He was a farmer and he was a thinker. He loved the land, its history, its substance, its moods and its meaning. He knew why people had fought and died for it and he understood the passions it generated. His hands were shaped by decades of wresting a living from the soil. Possessed of a sense of chivalry that has all but disappeared; he was one of the last representatives of a culture that had its roots in an ancient, a simpler, a lost world.

Father


Philip Larkin at 95

Wednesday, 9 August, 2017 0 Comments

Today marks what would have been the 95th birthday of the English poet Philip Larkin. He rejected the romantic style of W.B. Yeats and Dylan Thomas and focused instead on intense personal emotion. “I have no enemies. But my friends don’t like me,” said Larkin. There is no sentimentality or self-pity in his work, which is why he continues to be so original, so refreshing, so great. Every word here is true.

Home Is So Sad

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery
The music in the piano stool. That vase.

Philip Larkin (1922 – 1985)

Mick Upton and Mick Meade


A Child’s Christmas in Wales

Sunday, 28 December, 2014 0 Comments

The great Dylan Thomas knew that the best Christmas present of all is a story well told. A Child’s Christmas in Wales is a classic Christmas story and it’s more relevant this year as 2014 marks the centennial of the poet’s birth. Snippet:

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang “Cherry Ripe,” and another uncle sang “Drake’s Drum.” It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird’s Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

Dylan Thomas (1914 — 1953)


A girl whose single bed held two to make ends meet

Sunday, 26 October, 2014 0 Comments

If he had lived past 39, the “Rimbaud of Cwmdonkin Drive”, as Dylan Thomas called himself, would be 100 years old tomorrow. The end came in New York when he drank 18 straight whiskies in the White Horse Tavern and announced “I think that’s the record.” He staggered outside, collapsed, was taken to the Chelsea Hotel, fell into a coma and died the next morning in St. Vincent’s Hospital.

Dylan Thomas loved words. In his unfinished Notes on the Art of Poetry, he wrote: “What the words stood for, symbolised, or meant, was of very secondary importance; what mattered was the sound of them as I heard them for the first time on the lips of the remote and incomprehensible grown-ups who seemed, for some reason, to be living in my world. And these words were, to me, as the notes of bells, the sounds of musical instruments, the noises of wind, sea, and rain, the rattle of milk-carts, the clopping of hooves on cobbles, the fingering of branches on a window pane, might be to someone, deaf from birth, who has miraculously found his hearing.”

But words, in the form of gossip, can be a cause of great hurt, too. As Shakespeare wrote in Henry IV Part 2 Act 1 Scene 1, “Enter RUMOUR, painted full of tongues.” Here’s now Thomas viewed those dishing the dirt.

The Gossipers

The gossipers have lowered their voices,
Willing words to make the rumours certain,
Suspicious words tug at the neighbouring vices,
Unthinking actions given causes
Stir their old bones behind cupboard and curtains.

Putting two and two together,
Informed by rumour and the register,
The virgins smelt out, three streets up,
A girl whose single bed held two
To make ends meet,
Found managers and widows wanting
In morals and full marriage bunting,
And other virgins in official fathers.

For all the inconveniences they make,
The trouble, devildom, and heartbreak
The withered women win them bedfellows,
Nightly upon their wrinkled breasts
Press the old lies and the old ghosts.

Dylan Thomas (27 October 1914 — 9 November 1953)


The lovely gift of the gab lost

Sunday, 25 May, 2014 0 Comments

In George Orwell’s novel Keep the Aspidistra Flying, the protagonist Gordon Comstock struggles in vain to complete an epic poem describing a day in London: “It was too big for him, that was the truth. It had never really progressed, it had simply fallen apart into a series of fragments.” What Comstock battles is a phenomenon called “poet’s block”, a much less famous torment than its cousin, “writer’s block”. When Dylan Thomas found himself unable to compose, he created the image of “The lovely gift of the gab” that “bangs back on a blind shaft”. The combination invokes the image of a once-rich vein of language in a Welsh mine that is now empty of inspiration.

On No Work of Words

On no work of words now for three lean months in the
bloody
Belly of the rich year and the big purse of my body
I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft:

To take to give is all, return what is hungrily given
Puffing the pounds of manna up through the dew to heaven,
The lovely gift of the gab bangs back on a blind shaft.

To lift to leave from treasures of man is pleasing death
That will rake at last all currencies of the marked breath
And count the taken, forsaken mysteries in a bad dark.

To surrender now is to pay the expensive ogre twice.
Ancient woods of my blood, dash down to the nut of the seas
If I take to burn or return this world which is each man’s
work.

Dylan Thomas (1914 — 1953)


Rage, rage against the dying of the light

Saturday, 29 March, 2014 0 Comments

Describing his early poems, Dylan Thomas said that they were “eggs laid by tigers.” Peter Bruun, Martin Ullits Dahl and Jonas Westergaard from Copenhagen liked the Welshman’s phrase so much that it became the name of their band. Along with their name, the group get all their lyrics from the Swansea bard, who was born 100 years ago this year.

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.


They will not fade away

Thursday, 12 July, 2012

Congratulations to The Rolling Stones today for reaching their 50th year. The achievement is all the the more extraordinary when one considers the money, the partying, the fights, the trail of beautiful women and the drugs. For example, Keith Richards only gave up cocaine in 2006 after falling out of a tree in Fiji and […]

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