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You just wait. I'll sin 'til I blow up!

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
Waiting
Blow
Wait
Sin

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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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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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I sang in my chains like the sea
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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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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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Seventeen whiskeys. A record, I think.
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The moment of a miracle is unending lightning.
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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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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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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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Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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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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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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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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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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Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
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Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.
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Though lovers be lost love shall not.
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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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