Quote

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.

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
Waste
Halts
Blood
Jumps
Grows
Halt
Secret
Vitality
Dies
Dawn
Eye
Soil
Nature
Logic
Sun
Allotments

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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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Though lovers be lost love shall not.
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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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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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I used to think that once a writer became a man of letters, if only for a half hour, he was done for. And here I am now, at the very moment of such an odious, though respectable, danger.
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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 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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The moment of a miracle is unending lightning.
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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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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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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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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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Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true Poem on His Birthday
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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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[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.
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