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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.

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
Doubt
Umpires
Written
Doubts
Men
Poems
Love
Confusion
Weren
Damn
Praise
Fool
Confusions

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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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The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
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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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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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... Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.
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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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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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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
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I sang in my chains like the sea
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After the first death, there is no other.
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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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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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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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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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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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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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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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Rage, rage against the dying light
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