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. Dylan Thomas1914-1953
I have been really meaning to read more Dylan Thomas but never seem to get around to it. I had to read Under Milk Wood for a recording once, mostly because I have a Welsh accent rather than because of my reading skills I suspect.
I feel a little inspired to hunt some down and devour it.
Dylan's definitely one of those yummy-for-yer-tummy writers. And so you don't have to hunt too terribly far or wide, I'll share my favorite of his poems with you. I noted earlier that you are a writer (very nice site you have, btw) so you will appreciate this, I think.
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
Listening to it now...lovely! Thanks for the link. He sounds much older than I would have expected--what a wonderful baritone voice, though. Your magazine left me humbled! Wow! A magnificent selection of writers and a great layout. I liked what I saw very much and will definitely become a frequent visitor! I've just barely started with mine and it's been a lot more work (and a lot more fun) than I expected. Knowing all that goes into it leaves me quite impressed with the fruits of your labor.
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I feel a little inspired to hunt some down and devour it.
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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
October 1945
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Thank you for saying my site is nice, I also do a magazine at http://www.comrade.org.uk which you are welcome to have a look at.
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Words are currency and I have just been paid, thank you for your kind words. Really appreciate it.
Have a happy holiday.