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Where were you when you realized Dylan Thomas is the best poet of all time?
It is a winter's tale
That the snow blind twilight ferries over the lakes
And floating fields from the farm in the cup of the vales,
Gliding windless through the hand folded flakes,
The pale breath of cattle at the stealthy sail,
And the stars falling cold,
And the smell of hay in the snow, and the far owl
Warning among the folds, and the frozen hold
Flocked with the sheep white smoke of the farm house cowl
In the river wended vales where the tale was told.
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Nice, OP.
I hadn't read this poem. I like it a lot.
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>>8656857
These are only the first two stanzas. The full poem goes on much longer. Look it up, "A Winter's Tale".
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>>8656850
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k5u9Zz5l15E
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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
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>>8656857
You don't, you just vaguely understand it and acknowledge that it was written by someone you are expected to admire. If I posted that on /lit/ people would be indifferent at best.
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>>8656865
I find there's so much intensity in his writing, like he's pouring absolutely everything he's got into it. No other writer gives me that feeling.
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>>8656879
You must be a child. Suffer more. Read more.
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>>8656883
Post a poem you like, asswipe. At least give us something good to read while you're being a cock.
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>>8656883
I've "suffered" and read my fair share of poets. Just because you think different doesn't mean my feelings have no validity.
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>>8656879
You only have to hear him recite to realise how OTT and melodramatic he often was in his work.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2cgcx-GJTQ
Someone I know compared him to Rambling Sid Rumpo
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=013O6kAa3Yg
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>>8656883
Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up everything
And just cleared off,
And always the voice will sound
Certain you approve
This audacious, purifying,
Elemental move.
And they are right, I think.
We all hate home
And having to be there:
I detest my room,
It's specially-chosen junk,
The good books, the good bed,
And my life, in perfect order:
So to hear it said
He walked out on the whole crowd
Leaves me flushed and stirred,
Like Then she undid her dress
Or Take that you ****;
Surely I can, if he did?
And that helps me to stay
Sober and industrious.
But I'd go today,
Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,
Crouch in the fo'c'sle
Stubbly with goodness, if
It weren't so artificial,
Such a deliberate step backwards
To create an object:
Books; china; a life
Reprehensibly perfect.
___________________
A poem doesn't need to sperg out to be heartfelt.
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It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless
and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched,
courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the
sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea.
The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night
in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat
there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock,
the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds.
And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are
sleeping now.
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Bob Dylan??
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>>8658453
Christ I loved that. Such a control over tempo and rhythm. Gonna check out some more Thomas.
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I wasn't born yet.
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I guess I was sitting right here.
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>>8658501
look up fellow welshman richard burton reading that: under milk wood is a stupidly good 'play for voices' that thomas wrote and performed for radio. so damn good.
also, set fire to the stars is a nice flick. watch it!!
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The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953
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.
It's heavily anthologized, but still one of my favourite poems.
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>best poet of all time
>not John Donne
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>>8658587
It was when I heard Burton read under Milk Wood on YouTube.
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>>8658610
>Donne anywhere near Dante
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