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I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.

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
Thinking
Whisky
Eighteen
Straight
Record
Records
Think

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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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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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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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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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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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Families, like countries, take their prophets unkindly, but a verse-speaker in the house is dishonor to be hooted.
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He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
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Too many of the artists of Wales spend too much time talking about the position of theartists of Wales.There is only one position for an artist anywhere: and that is, upright.
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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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Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.
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You just wait. I'll sin 'til I blow up!
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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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The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
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Man’s wants remain unsatisfied till death. Then, when his soul is naked, is he one With the man in the wind, and the west moon, With the harmonious thunder of the sun
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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.
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I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.
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And from the first declension of the flesh I learnt man's tongue, to twist the shapes of thoughts Into the stony idiom of the brain.
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[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.
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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.
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