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My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.

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
Eye
Read
Time
Indiscriminately
Hanging
Liberty
Education
Eyes
Reading

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When logics die, The secret of the soil grows through the eye, And blood jumps in the sun Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
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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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Youth calls to age across the tired years: 'What have you found,' he cries, 'what have you sought? 'What have you found,' age answers through his tears, 'What have you sought.
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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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After the first death, there is no other.
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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.
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I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.
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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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Whatever talents I possess may suddenly diminish or suddenly increase. I can with ease become an ordinary fool. I may be one now. But it doesn't do to upset one's own vanity.
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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.
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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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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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If you want a definition of poetry, say: Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing and let it go at that.
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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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Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl and curling round the bud that forks her eye.
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The moment of a miracle is unending lightning.
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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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Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
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