my (maybe not so) slight obssession...

hey... it's me again!

today, or, tonight really, i am planning on introducing you to one of my obssessions...

Dylan Thomas.

really, it's just pathetic, but i love him to death. even if he was on drugs.

so here, is one of Dylan Thomas's most famous poems...

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 that 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.

is that not absolutely freakin' beautiful?!? he wrote it for his alcoholic father.

now, this poem is probably one of my absolute favorites...

In My Craft or Sullen Art

In my craft or sullen art

Exercised in the still night

When only the moon rages

And the lovers lie abed

With all their griefs in their arms

I labour by singing light

Not for ambition or bread

Or the strut and trade of charms

On the ivory stages

But for the common wages

Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart

From the raging moon I write

On these spindrift pages

Nor for the towering dead

With their nightingales and psalms

But for the lovers, their arms

Round the griefs of the ages,

Who pay no praise or wages

Nor heed my craft or art

okay... there's a better version in a book i have, i'll fix this tomorrow.

and then, there are poems like this, which show how much on drugs he really was...

Not From This Anger

Not from this anger, anticlimax after

Refusal struck her loin and the lame flower

Bent like a beast to lap the singular floods

In a land strapped by hunger

Shall she receive a bellyful of weeds

And bear those tendril hands I touch across

The agonized, two seas.

Behind my head a square of sky sags over

The circular smile tossed from lover to lover

And the golden ball spins out of the skies;

Not from this anger after

Refusal struck like a bell under water

Shall her smile breed that mouth, behind the mirror,

That burns along my eyes.

funny thing is... i like that one a lot, too....

oh my goodness! this one's awesome, as well!

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.

gosh. he's so good. and fabulous. and whatnot.

okay, this is the last one, i promise. (you'll like it!)

Where Once the Waters of Your Face

Where once the waters of your face

Spun to my screws, your dry ghost blows,

The dead turns up its eye;

Where once the mermen through your ice

Pushed up their hair, the dry wind steers

Through salt and root and roe.

Where once your green knots sank their splice

Into the tided cord, there goes

The green unraveller,

His scissors oiled, his knife hung loose

To cut the channels at their source

And lay the wet fruits low.

Invisible, your clocking tides

Break on the lovebeds of the weeds;

The weed of love's left dry;

There round about your stones the shades

Of children go who, from their voids,

Cry to the dolphined sea.

Dry as a tomb, your coloured lids

Shall not be latched while magic glides

Sage on the earth and sky;

There shall be corals in your beds

There shall be serpents in your tides,

Till all our sea-faiths die.

okay, you have to admit... that poem is total genius. GENIUS!

well, i hope you get my slight obssession just a little bit better now...

-elise