Quote

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.

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
Age
Rose
Rebirth
Force
Roots
Bend
Tell
Green
Crooked
Life
Flower
Blast
Wintry
Birth
Fever
Blasts
Youth
Drives
Destroyer
Growth
Dumb
Fuse
Tree
Trees
Destroyers

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A good poem is a contribution to reality.
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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Rage, rage against the dying light
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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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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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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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A truly comic, invented world must live at the same time as the world we live in.
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Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?
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And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
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Though lovers be lost love shall not.
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My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.
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I sang in my chains like the sea
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