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Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

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Dylan Thomas
Age: 39 †
Born: 1914
Born: October 27
Died: 1953
Died: November 9
Author
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Abertawe
Dylan Marlais Thomas
Gently
Rage
Dying
Night
Light
Good

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Reading one's own poems aloud is letting the cat out of the bag. You may have always suspected bits of a poem to be overweighted, overviolent, or daft, and then, suddenly, with the poet's tongue around them, your suspicion is made certain.
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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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Rhianon, he said, hold my hand, Rhianon. She did not hear him, but stood over his bed and fixed him with an unbroken sorrow. Hold my hand, he said, and then: why are your putting the sheet over my face?
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Let the dry eyes perceive Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses By the curve of the nude mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
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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.
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Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true Poem on His Birthday
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I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.
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He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
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After the first death, there is no other.
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Out of the sighs a little comes, But not of grief, for I have knocked down that Before the agony the spirit grows, Forgets, and cries A little comes, is tasted and found good.
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One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
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Families, like countries, take their prophets unkindly, but a verse-speaker in the house is dishonor to be hooted.
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This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.
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Seventeen whiskeys. A record, I think.
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In the beginning was the word, the word That from the solid bases of the light Abstracted all the letters of the void.
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These poems, with all their crudities, doubts, and confusions, are written for the love of Man and in praise of God, and I'd be a damn' fool if they weren't.
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Though lovers be lost love shall not.
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I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.
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Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
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I used to think that once a writer became a man of letters, if only for a half hour, he was done for. And here I am now, at the very moment of such an odious, though respectable, danger.
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