Quote

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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Dylan Thomas
Age: 39 †
Born: 1914
Born: October 27
Died: 1953
Died: November 9
Author
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Abertawe
Dylan Marlais Thomas
Shoulders
Larks
Clouds
Whistling
Sun
October
Nature
Hill
Cloud
Brimming
Shoulder
Blackbirds
Rolling
Roadside
Hills
Bushes

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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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I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.
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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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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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Though lovers be lost love shall not.
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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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Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.
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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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Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?
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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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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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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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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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I sang in my chains like the sea
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And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
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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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Rage, rage against the dying light
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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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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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