Writing on the Wall
(page 2)
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
And Death Shall Have No Dominion (AUDIO/WRITTEN)
Thought For The Day: "A poet is a poet for such a very tiny bit of his life; for the rest he is a human being, one of whose responsibilities is to know and feel, as much as he can, all that is moving around him."
-Dylan Thomas
(The following information retrieved from The Top 500 Poems (edited by William Harmon), a Columbia Anthology--Columbia University Press, New York)
Dylan Thomas matured as a poet while still a young boy, his first book (18 Poems) being published before he turned 21! (We should all be so lucky!) He was born in Swansea, Wales, skipped college and worked as a writer until his death (in New York): He had not yet reached 40 years of age. . .
He was a great performer, and spent months touring and reading his poetry; and, indeed, he was known for the mesmerizing powers of his magnificent voice. Though he is known for his pub-hopping and eccentric ways, it cannot be denied that he remains one of the great poets of our time, belonging to the great tradition which includes Blake, Keats, Hardy, Hopkins and Yeats.
The following poem, one of my favorites, had originated as an address to Dylan Thomas' dying father. It remains one of the "finest [villanelles] ever written as well as one of the finest poems of the twentieth century in any form."
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.
(In My Craft or Sullen Art; The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower; And Death Shall Have No Dominion)
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.
The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
And Death Shall Have No Dominion
(those with slower connections may have to wait a moment or 2 for loading)
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men 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.
(I dedicate this page to my father, a good and loving man, who died much too soon, whose "deeds might have danced in a green bay", and who did "not go gentle into that good night".)
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