Dylan Thomas Poetry

original site: http://home.earthlink.net/~tenspeed/SimonaSara/dylan2.htm

  • These are the three poems that make poetry worth reading. They are my favorite, I hope that you enjoy as much as I do. Read on, and comment at simel@escape.ca if you disagree and why.


      Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

    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.

    Sometimes The Sky's Too Bright

    Sometimes the sky's too bright,
    Or has too many clouds or birds,
    And far away's too sharp a sun
    To nourish thinking of him.
    Why is my hand too blunt
    To cut in front of me
    My horrid images for me,
    Of over-fruitful smiles,
    The weightless touching of the lip
    I wish to know
    I cannot lift, but can,
    The creature with the angel's face
    Who tells me hurt,
    And sees my body go
    Down into misery?
    No stopping. Put the smile
    Where tears have come to dry.
    The angel's hurt is left;
    His telling burns.

     Sometimes a woman's heart has salt,
    Or too much blood;
    I tear her breast,
    And see the blood is mine,
    Flowing from her, but mine,
    And then I think
    Perhaps the sky's too bright;
    And watch my hand,
    But do not follow it,
    And feel the pain it gives,
    But do not ache.

    The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower

    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 bent by the same wintry fever.

     The force that drives the water through the rocks
    Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
    Turns mine to wax.
    And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
    How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

     The hand that whirls the water in the pool
    Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
    Hauls my shroud sail.
    And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
    How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

     The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
    Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
    Shall calm her sores.
    And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
    How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

     And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
    How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

    Your turn...

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