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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.

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
Complaining
Boring
Luck
Somebody
Reading
Book
Think
Complaints
Thinking
Boredom

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Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision that depends in its intensity on the strength of the labour put into the creation of the poetry.
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You wouldn't think such a place as San Francisco could exist. The wonderful sunlight there, the hills, the great bridges, the Pacific at your shoes. Beautiful Chinatown. Every race in the world. The sardine fleets sailing out. The little cable-cars whizzing down The City hills. And all the people are open and friendly.
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A good poem is a contribution to reality.
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A truly comic, invented world must live at the same time as the world we live in.
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He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
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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.
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Seventeen whiskeys. A record, I think.
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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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Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.
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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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It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.
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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 bend by the same wintry fever.
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Hands have not tears to flow.
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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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[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.
Dylan Thomas
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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.
Dylan Thomas
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Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
Dylan Thomas
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The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.
Dylan Thomas
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I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.
Dylan Thomas
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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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