 Poetry: April 25, 2018 Issue [#8869] |
  Poetry
This week: Dylan Thomas Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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In The Beginning
by Dylan Thomas
In the beginning was the three-pointed star,
One smile of light across the empty face,
One bough of bone across the rooting air,
The substance forked that marrowed the first sun,
And, burning ciphers on the round of space,
Heaven and hell mixed as they spun.
In the beginning was the pale signature,
Three-syllabled and starry as the smile,
And after came the imprints on the water,
Stamp of the minted face upon the moon;
The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail
Touched the first cloud and left a sign.
In the beginning was the mounting fire
That set alight the weathers from a spark,
A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower,
Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas,
Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock
The secret oils that drive the grass.
In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death.
In the beginning was the secret brain.
The brain was celled and soldered in the thought
Before the pitch was forking to a sun;
Before the veins were shaking in their sieve,
Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light
The ribbed original of love.
Clown In The Moon
by Dylan Thomas
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.
On October 27, 1914, in Swansea, Wales, David John Thomas and his wife Florence Hannah Thomas welcomed son Dylan Marlais Thomas into their family. David Thomas was a school teacher and gave Dylan his name after the name of a sea god in celtic mythology. Thomas’s father influenced him by sharing native Welsh traditions and classic English literature. Thomas spent his childhood enjoying the outdoors and family trips to seaside. These summers trips inspired his poem “Fern Hill.”
Thomas started writing poetry at a young age. His first poem was written at the age of twelve, entitled "The Song of the Mischievous Dog.” He continued writing throughout his teen years and left school at sixteen. His first job was a reporter for a local newspaper before moving to London in November of 1934. After his move to London Thomas published his first volume of poetry, "Eighteen Poems,” on December 18th, 1934. He was nineteen years old. Thomas met Caitlin MacNamara in April 1936. The two were married in July 1937 and the following year moved to Laugharne, Whales. Thomas and his wife had two sons and one daughter, Llewelyn Edouard Thomas was born in January 1939, Aeronwyn Bryn Thomas was born in March 1943 and Colm Garan Hart Thomas was born in 1949.
Thomas published "The Map of Love" in August 1939 and "The World I Breathe" in December 1939, in the United States. In April 1940 "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog" was published. In 1946 following the publication of "Deaths and Entrances" he began traveling to the US, touring colleges to read poetry. As Thomas's popularity grew he not only read his own poetry but other poets. Thomas’s voice was enjoyed by all that came to his readings. He was asked to record some of the poetry he read. The reading tours began to take their toll on Thomas. He began drinking more and more and his depression grew. Thomas started his fourth lecture tour in the United States in 1953.
Thomas was a recipient of the Foyle Prize in 1953. Later that year he would lose his battle with depression and alcoholism. On November 9th, 1953, Dylan Marlais Thomas died, at the age of thirty-nine, at St. Vincents Hospital in New York City. It was reported that he died from alcoholic poisoning. Thomas’s body was sent back home to Wales, where his grave was marked with a small wooden cross. Caitlin died in July 1994 in Italy, where she had spent most of her life after Dylan Thomas’s death. Her body was returned to Wales and is buried next to his.
Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night
by: Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
When the lights have faded, and the darkness threatens the day;
When reality's path collides with your b'loved daydreams
Therein lies the heartbreak, which upon your soul it will weigh
So heavily that everything else is not what it seems.
A once good heart, descending into blackness, seeks sunlight
When the lights have faded, and the darkness threatens the day.
As the dividing edge creeps further away to twilight,
Depression and despair invite themselves in for a stay.
Behold the beauty of a dream slowly fading away!
Fading out of sight and mind into consuming madness.
When the lights have faded, and the darkness threatens the day
There's no trace of happiness, just a lingering sadness.
At the onset of dusk, you're pawns in a game by mere chance.
Captured by desire, and crushed by defeat; to your dismay.
The only thing left to do is ponder life's circumstance
When the lights have faded, and the darkness threatens the day.
Honorable mention:
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Beauty stands in despair
Consumed by madness
No trace of it left on
What path has been led?
For these pawns to be
Pushed over the edge.
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