Quote

... Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.

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
Bones
Maggot
Flesh
Wily
Blood
Maggots
Word
Slay
Body
Bone
Men
Rebel
Life
Skin
Skins

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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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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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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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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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Rage, rage against the dying light
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A horrid alcoholic explosion scatters all my good intentions like bits of limbs and clothes over the doorsteps and into the saloon bars of the tawdriest pubs.
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I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.
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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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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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He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
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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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The moment of a miracle is unending lightning.
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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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The closer I move To death, one man through his sundered hulks, The louder the sun blooms And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults.
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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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Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
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And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through Split all ends up they shan't crack And death shall have no dominion.
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Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.
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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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