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The Poems of Dylan Thomas
The reputation of Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) as one of the greatest poets of the twentieth century has not waned in the fifty years since his death. A Welshman with a passion for the English language, Thomas’s singular poetic voice has been admired and imitated, but never matched.
This exciting, newly edited annotated edition offers a more complete and representative collection of Dylan Thomas’s poetic works than any previous edition. Edited by leading Dylan Thomas scholar John Goodby from the University of Swansea, The Poems of Dylan Thomas contains all the poems that appeared in Collected Poems 1934-1952, edited by Dylan Thomas himself, as well as poems from the 1930-1934 notebooks and poems from letters, amatory verses, occasional poems, the verse film script for “Our Country,” and poems that appear in his “radio play for voices,” Under Milk Wood. Showing the broad range of Dylan Thomas’s oeuvre as never before, this new edition places Thomas in the twenty-first century, with an up-to-date introduction by Goodby whose notes and annotations take a pluralistic approach.
This exciting, newly edited annotated edition offers a more complete and representative collection of Dylan Thomas’s poetic works than any previous edition. Edited by leading Dylan Thomas scholar John Goodby from the University of Swansea, The Poems of Dylan Thomas contains all the poems that appeared in Collected Poems 1934-1952, edited by Dylan Thomas himself, as well as poems from the 1930-1934 notebooks and poems from letters, amatory verses, occasional poems, the verse film script for “Our Country,” and poems that appear in his “radio play for voices,” Under Milk Wood. Showing the broad range of Dylan Thomas’s oeuvre as never before, this new edition places Thomas in the twenty-first century, with an up-to-date introduction by Goodby whose notes and annotations take a pluralistic approach.
512 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1965
163 people are currently reading
3151 people want to read
About the author
Dylan Thomas
586 books1,410 followersDylan Marlais Thomas (1914-1953) was a Welsh poet who wrote in English. Many regard him as one of the 20th century's most influential poets.
In addition to poetry, Thomas wrote short stories and scripts for film and radio, with the latter frequently performed by Thomas himself. His public readings, particularly in America, won him great acclaim; his booming, at times, ostentatious voice, with a subtle Welsh lilt, became almost as famous as his works. His best-known work includes the "play for voices" Under Milk Wood and the celebrated villanelle for his dying father, "Do not go gentle into that good night." Appreciative critics have also noted the superb craftsmanship and compression of poems such as "In my craft or sullen art" and the rhapsodic lyricism of Fern Hill.
In addition to poetry, Thomas wrote short stories and scripts for film and radio, with the latter frequently performed by Thomas himself. His public readings, particularly in America, won him great acclaim; his booming, at times, ostentatious voice, with a subtle Welsh lilt, became almost as famous as his works. His best-known work includes the "play for voices" Under Milk Wood and the celebrated villanelle for his dying father, "Do not go gentle into that good night." Appreciative critics have also noted the superb craftsmanship and compression of poems such as "In my craft or sullen art" and the rhapsodic lyricism of Fern Hill.
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August 8, 2024
I credit this book as my Poetry Lover origin story. When I was 17 I picked up a copy of this from a used bookstore in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The Dawn Treader for those who know it. The copy was previously owned by someone who took EXTENSIVE notes in the margins and had likely taught Thomas as each metaphor was explained and there were entire paragraphs written about the meaning of the poems. It was like stumbling across my own mini Dylan Thomas college course and really unlocked how to read poetry. It was also useful as knowing Dylan Thomas was pretty damn hip in college and you can bet your ass I memorized I Know This Vicious Minute's Hour so I could recite it while smoking a cigarette on the steps to the dorm hall to impress all the cute boys and girls (and impressed none of them). I will forever love DT and to just hear his name brings back fond memories. My Big Bang for falling in love with poetry.
'I know this vicious minute's hour;
It is a sour motion in the blood,
That,like a tree, has roots in you,
And buds in you,
Each silver moment chimes
in steps of sound,
And I, caught in mid-air perhaps,
Hear and am still the little bird,
You have offended,periodic heart;
You I shall drown unreasonably,
Leave you in me to be found
Darker than ever,
Too full with blood to let my love flow in.
Stop is unreal;
I want reality to hold within my palm,
Not , as a symbol, stone speaking or no,
But it, reality, whose voice I know
To be the circle not the stair of sound.
Go is my wish;
Then shall I go,
But in the light of going
Minutes are mine
I could devote to other things.
Stop has no minutes,
but I go or die.'
'I know this vicious minute's hour;
It is a sour motion in the blood,
That,like a tree, has roots in you,
And buds in you,
Each silver moment chimes
in steps of sound,
And I, caught in mid-air perhaps,
Hear and am still the little bird,
You have offended,periodic heart;
You I shall drown unreasonably,
Leave you in me to be found
Darker than ever,
Too full with blood to let my love flow in.
Stop is unreal;
I want reality to hold within my palm,
Not , as a symbol, stone speaking or no,
But it, reality, whose voice I know
To be the circle not the stair of sound.
Go is my wish;
Then shall I go,
But in the light of going
Minutes are mine
I could devote to other things.
Stop has no minutes,
but I go or die.'
March 10, 2018
Do I need to actually write a review of Dylan Thomas’ work? Read this poem. It says more than I ever could:
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.
I actually recite this poem in my head whilst I’m running. I’m training for a half-marathon at the moment, and these words make me feel determined. It makes me carry on through those last few miles when I’m flat-out and my energy levels have reached zero. It’s a strong sentiment.
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.
I actually recite this poem in my head whilst I’m running. I’m training for a half-marathon at the moment, and these words make me feel determined. It makes me carry on through those last few miles when I’m flat-out and my energy levels have reached zero. It’s a strong sentiment.
February 24, 2021
Waking alone in a multitude of loves when morning's light
Surprised in the opening of her nightlong eyes
His golden yesterday asleep upon the iris
And this day's sun leapt up the sky out of her thighs
Was miraculous virginity old as loaves and fishes,
Though the moment of a miracle is unending lightning
And the shipyards of Galilee's footprints hide a navy of doves.
No longer will the vibrations of the sun desire on
Her deepsea pillow where once she married alone,
Her heart all ears and eyes, lips catching the avalanche
Of the golden ghost who ringed with his streams her mercury bone,
Who under the lids of her windows hoisted his golden luggage,
For a man sleeps where fire leapt down and she learns through his
arm
That other sun, the jealous coursing of the unrivalled blood.
December 5, 2007
Studied these poems at university and am in awe at Dylan's genius. I can't begin to claim I understand all of the poems in this work, but all of the ones I have looked at in depth are quite amazing as pieces of English that touch a nerve and stir your soul.
September 21, 2022
The halcyon images of this sea-town park in Wales, where I, too, played as a young child, are vividly captured in Thomas' Reminiscences of Childhood:
“Quite near where I lived, so near that on summer evenings I could listen in my bed to the voices of older children playing ball on the sloping paper-littered bank, the park was full of terrors and treasures. Though it was only a little park, it held within its borders of old tall trees, notched with our names and shabby from our climbing, as many secret places, caverns and forests, prairies and deserts, as a country somewhere at the end of the sea.”
These final lines from his poem “Fern Hill” may be found engraved in a memorial stone at that same park.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
“Quite near where I lived, so near that on summer evenings I could listen in my bed to the voices of older children playing ball on the sloping paper-littered bank, the park was full of terrors and treasures. Though it was only a little park, it held within its borders of old tall trees, notched with our names and shabby from our climbing, as many secret places, caverns and forests, prairies and deserts, as a country somewhere at the end of the sea.”
These final lines from his poem “Fern Hill” may be found engraved in a memorial stone at that same park.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
Read
March 15, 2015On A Wedding Anniversary
The sky is torn across
This ragged anniversary of two
Who moved for three years in tune
Down the long walks of their vows.
Now their love lies a loss
And Love and his patients roar on a chain;
From every tune or crater
Carrying cloud, Death strikes their house.
Too late in the wrong rain
They come together whom their love parted:
The windows pour into their heart
And the doors burn in their brain.
The sky is torn across
This ragged anniversary of two
Who moved for three years in tune
Down the long walks of their vows.
Now their love lies a loss
And Love and his patients roar on a chain;
From every tune or crater
Carrying cloud, Death strikes their house.
Too late in the wrong rain
They come together whom their love parted:
The windows pour into their heart
And the doors burn in their brain.
December 14, 2008
His style is out of style. Modern poets laugh at his "turgid" verses. What do they know? I feel that what poets offer to us is the ability to channel their emotions directly into words. Style is actually just a matter of personal choice, and is relatively irrelevant. One story: After a visit to his dying father in a hospital, he went back to his hotel room, and wrote "The force that through the green fuse."
March 19, 2015
" Till every beast blared down in swerve , till every turtle crushed from his shell , till every bone in the rushing grave rose and crowd and fill "
November 20, 2022
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb / How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
December 11, 2008
I've been going back and forth on how to rate this one. I mean what can you do with two hundred poems. It's like this: Some cut deep, are dead on, all punch and polish; then there are those, maybe half, that are just words on paper, bounce off you like the local newscast. I've just realized...It seems I've forgotten my stupid notes. Which means that I'm left with my stupid memory.
I heard this discussion on NPR, someone said that poetry should be approached as music, where you gather its essence and experience the feel of the thing. As with music, discovering what's going to hook in is unpredictable and wholly subjective. For example, as in tune as I am with the tastes of my closest friend, I'll send him a hundred songs and he'll hold on to may four or five. And while I can appreciate a skilled artist, even in the face of real talent and all the richness it produces, it doesn't necessarily move me in the way that counts. Once in while, you’ll begin to read, your heart will start to build its rhythm, your breathing will pause in the tension of it, you vision narrows, the world becomes unsettled, and a perfect verse crystallizes an idea you’ve been searching after and leaves you sick with it.
For example I remember this one cold:
I Have Longed to Move Away
I have longed to move away
from the hissing of a spent lie
from the old terror's continual cry
growing more terrible as the day
goes over the hill into the deep sea.
I have longed to move away
from the repetition of salutes
from there are ghosts in the air
and ghostly echoes on paper
and the thunder of calls and notes.
I have longed to move away, but am afraid,
some life, yet unspent, might explode
from the old lie, burning on the ground,
and crackling into the air, leave me half blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
the parting of hat from hair,
pursed lips at the receiver,
shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
half convention and half lie.
This is to say: While I'd love to spare a reader the sorting of junk from the incendiary, really, I can just note what worked for me.
O.K., I have retrieved my notes and come back to finish up.
I like this one out loud:
Let It Be Known
Let it be known that little live but lies,
Love-lies, and god-lies, and lies-to-please,
Let children know, and old men at their gates,
that this is lies that moans departure,
and that is lies that, after the old men die,
Declare their souls, let children know, live after.
In no particular order, I’ve stored away copies of these into my hard drive:
And Death Shall Have No Dominion
Elegy
You Shall Not Despair
Now
Paper and Sticks
Poem
There Was a Saviour
In Her Lying Down Head
After the Funeral
On a Wedding Anniversary
With Windmills Turning Wrong Directions
Love in the Asylum
Many of the poems were too dense and convoluted for me to enjoy; they seemed esoteric and unnaturally dense with some unholy combination of complexity, macabre, and viscera.
I did, however, enjoy the simple craft of his poems completed before sixteen. I took it hard that he was so good so young; it undermines my hope that I might mature into a gifted writer.
You Shall Not Despair
You shall not despair
Because I have forsaken you
Or cast you love aside;
There is a greater love than mine
Which can comfort you
And touch you with softer hands.
I am no longer
Friendly and beautiful to you;
Your body cannot gladden me,
Nor the splendour of your dark hair,
But I do not humiliate you;
You shall be taken sweetly again And soothed with slow tears;
You shall be loved enough.
When Your Furious Motion
When your furious motion is steadied,
And your clamour stopped,
And when the bright wheel of your turning voice is stilled,
Your step will remain about to fall.
So will your voice vibrate
And its edge cut the surface,
So, then, will the dark cloth of your hair
Flow uneasily behind you.
This ponderous flower
Which leans one way,
Weighed strangely down upon you
Until you could bear it no longer
And bent under it,
While its violet shells broke and parted.
When you are gone
The scent of the great flower will stay,
Burning its sweet path clearer than before.
Press, press, and clasp steadily;
You shall not let go;
Chain the strong voice
And grip the inexorable song,
Or throw it, stone by stone,
Into the sky.
See what I mean.
I heard this discussion on NPR, someone said that poetry should be approached as music, where you gather its essence and experience the feel of the thing. As with music, discovering what's going to hook in is unpredictable and wholly subjective. For example, as in tune as I am with the tastes of my closest friend, I'll send him a hundred songs and he'll hold on to may four or five. And while I can appreciate a skilled artist, even in the face of real talent and all the richness it produces, it doesn't necessarily move me in the way that counts. Once in while, you’ll begin to read, your heart will start to build its rhythm, your breathing will pause in the tension of it, you vision narrows, the world becomes unsettled, and a perfect verse crystallizes an idea you’ve been searching after and leaves you sick with it.
For example I remember this one cold:
I Have Longed to Move Away
I have longed to move away
from the hissing of a spent lie
from the old terror's continual cry
growing more terrible as the day
goes over the hill into the deep sea.
I have longed to move away
from the repetition of salutes
from there are ghosts in the air
and ghostly echoes on paper
and the thunder of calls and notes.
I have longed to move away, but am afraid,
some life, yet unspent, might explode
from the old lie, burning on the ground,
and crackling into the air, leave me half blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
the parting of hat from hair,
pursed lips at the receiver,
shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
half convention and half lie.
This is to say: While I'd love to spare a reader the sorting of junk from the incendiary, really, I can just note what worked for me.
O.K., I have retrieved my notes and come back to finish up.
I like this one out loud:
Let It Be Known
Let it be known that little live but lies,
Love-lies, and god-lies, and lies-to-please,
Let children know, and old men at their gates,
that this is lies that moans departure,
and that is lies that, after the old men die,
Declare their souls, let children know, live after.
In no particular order, I’ve stored away copies of these into my hard drive:
And Death Shall Have No Dominion
Elegy
You Shall Not Despair
Now
Paper and Sticks
Poem
There Was a Saviour
In Her Lying Down Head
After the Funeral
On a Wedding Anniversary
With Windmills Turning Wrong Directions
Love in the Asylum
Many of the poems were too dense and convoluted for me to enjoy; they seemed esoteric and unnaturally dense with some unholy combination of complexity, macabre, and viscera.
I did, however, enjoy the simple craft of his poems completed before sixteen. I took it hard that he was so good so young; it undermines my hope that I might mature into a gifted writer.
You Shall Not Despair
You shall not despair
Because I have forsaken you
Or cast you love aside;
There is a greater love than mine
Which can comfort you
And touch you with softer hands.
I am no longer
Friendly and beautiful to you;
Your body cannot gladden me,
Nor the splendour of your dark hair,
But I do not humiliate you;
You shall be taken sweetly again And soothed with slow tears;
You shall be loved enough.
When Your Furious Motion
When your furious motion is steadied,
And your clamour stopped,
And when the bright wheel of your turning voice is stilled,
Your step will remain about to fall.
So will your voice vibrate
And its edge cut the surface,
So, then, will the dark cloth of your hair
Flow uneasily behind you.
This ponderous flower
Which leans one way,
Weighed strangely down upon you
Until you could bear it no longer
And bent under it,
While its violet shells broke and parted.
When you are gone
The scent of the great flower will stay,
Burning its sweet path clearer than before.
Press, press, and clasp steadily;
You shall not let go;
Chain the strong voice
And grip the inexorable song,
Or throw it, stone by stone,
Into the sky.
See what I mean.
did-not-finish-pauses
July 16, 2025While this is objectively good poetry, for some reason it just was not working for me. Maybe I will try to read it again in a couple of years (or months?) when my brain will allow it. Until then, I am sadly DNFing it at page 109.
April 25, 2009
Dylan Thomas makes my top-10 poet list, though his position shifts, depending on the season and my temper. And, I'm afraid my edition of this book predates the CD, though I'd like to hear him read his work. In any edition, I admire the way Thomas puts together words:
"The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind..."
"At the point of love, forsaken and afraid ..."
"In the sun that is young once only,
time let me play and be
golden in the mercy of his means ..."
"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 ..."
"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage aainst the dying of the light."
The chronological presentation of the poems seems just right. The shape poems don't interest me, however.
Wordsworth, Eliot and Whitman are also on my list. (I'm working my way through the original version of the latter. The versions I read in high school were redacted and much sanitized. I'm surprised Whitman's books weren't burned. But, then, he spent a lifetime toning himself down.
"The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind..."
"At the point of love, forsaken and afraid ..."
"In the sun that is young once only,
time let me play and be
golden in the mercy of his means ..."
"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 ..."
"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage aainst the dying of the light."
The chronological presentation of the poems seems just right. The shape poems don't interest me, however.
Wordsworth, Eliot and Whitman are also on my list. (I'm working my way through the original version of the latter. The versions I read in high school were redacted and much sanitized. I'm surprised Whitman's books weren't burned. But, then, he spent a lifetime toning himself down.
December 30, 2020
It took me two years to read this book, because I just wasn’t getting much out of it. But one of the appendices did much to assuage my guilt, from Thomas himself: “read the poems you like reading. Don’t bother whether they’re ‘important’, or if they’ll live.” Sadly those lines touched me almost more than anything here - I just don’t have enough of a classical education, religious inclination, or rural background to appreciate so much of what’s happening here.
January 26, 2016
I read a different edition, but I loved this collection. Definitely need to read more Dylan Thomas
October 21, 2012
listen to him reading his poems. mesmerizing!
March 15, 2021
Antología de Dylan Thomas... estropeada por una pésima traducción, que hace que se pierda gran parte de la fuerza poética.
December 9, 2021
E io sono muto per dire al vento della stagione
Come attorno alle stelle il tempo abbia scandito un cielo.
Come attorno alle stelle il tempo abbia scandito un cielo.
March 24, 2022
According to Wikipedia Thomas was interested in the "unity of all life", and the portrayal of the cycle of birth, death and life itself all at once. I would say he succeeded.
July 1, 2018
Dylan Thomas ბევრი არავინ კითხულობს ამ უელსელს, არც მე, რაში უნდა მაინტერესებდეს კუნძულელის სიტყვათა წყობა როდესაც აქაურობს მიაქვს პოეტთა თუ მწერალთა შემოქმედება. ვის უნდა გაეპრანჭო? ნახეთ დილან თომასი ვიცი, შემომხედეთ მე რა ჩახედული ვარ ბრიტანულ ნეორომანტიზმში. ალბათ მხოლოდ გოიმებს და ძალზედ უდარდელ მდიდრებს. მე კი ის წავიკითხე, დახეული, ნაქონი, სუნიანი ყდის მქონე წიგნი, რჩეული დილან თომასისა, ეს ის გამოცემა არაა, თუმცა ყველა ნამუშევარი მეცნო, "კლოუნი მთვარეზე", იყო ასეთი ლექსი
ჩემი ცრემლები ხშირად მაგონებს
ლივლივს გრძნეული ვარდის ფოთოლთა,
ჩამოწანწკარებს დარდი ნაპრალებს
ხსოვნისმიღმიერ ცათა და თოვლთა.
ახლა, მიწას თუ შევახე ხელი,
დაიმსხვრევა და დანაკუწდება,
ისე მშვიდია და მშვენიერი,
ისე მთრთოლვარე, როგორც ოცნება.
ეს არც მოდერნიზმია, არც რომანტიზმი, ნეორმონატიზმია? უელსური ფოლკლორი? რთულია გაიგო ჟანრი მისი, პიროვნებაც მსგავსად აუღებელი სიღრმეს წააგავდა, რომ არა მისი გაუთავებელი ლოთობის ლოთური სერიათა აქტები, ალკოჰოლის საწამლავით გაჟღენთილი ანტიფსიქიკური რწყევები ზედ ბარის მაგიდაზე არ ჩაწვებოდა მიწაში 39 წლის ასაკში ცივ კუბოში რომლისაც ასე გეშინია შენც, თუმცა თავს მოიტყუებ არაო, შევეგუეო.
ვფიქრობ როდესაც მიდიან პოეტები ამ ქვეყნიდან, იმდენად ბანძდებიან რომ სოციალური ქსელის "ციტატების" ნაწილი ხდებიან, თომას დილანი ვერ გახდა მაგის ნაწილი! ანუ კაი პოეტია, მე კი ის გოიმური პოზიცია დავიკავე, სადაც უდარდელი მდიდარი საუბრობს ისეთ მაღალ ფარდოვან მოვლენაზე, როგორიცაა ბრიტანული ნეორომანტიკა... თან სად? თბილისში...
ჩემი ცრემლები ხშირად მაგონებს
ლივლივს გრძნეული ვარდის ფოთოლთა,
ჩამოწანწკარებს დარდი ნაპრალებს
ხსოვნისმიღმიერ ცათა და თოვლთა.
ახლა, მიწას თუ შევახე ხელი,
დაიმსხვრევა და დანაკუწდება,
ისე მშვიდია და მშვენიერი,
ისე მთრთოლვარე, როგორც ოცნება.
ეს არც მოდერნიზმია, არც რომანტიზმი, ნეორმონატიზმია? უელსური ფოლკლორი? რთულია გაიგო ჟანრი მისი, პიროვნებაც მსგავსად აუღებელი სიღრმეს წააგავდა, რომ არა მისი გაუთავებელი ლოთობის ლოთური სერიათა აქტები, ალკოჰოლის საწამლავით გაჟღენთილი ანტიფსიქიკური რწყევები ზედ ბარის მაგიდაზე არ ჩაწვებოდა მიწაში 39 წლის ასაკში ცივ კუბოში რომლისაც ასე გეშინია შენც, თუმცა თავს მოიტყუებ არაო, შევეგუეო.
ვფიქრობ როდესაც მიდიან პოეტები ამ ქვეყნიდან, იმდენად ბანძდებიან რომ სოციალური ქსელის "ციტატების" ნაწილი ხდებიან, თომას დილანი ვერ გახდა მაგის ნაწილი! ანუ კაი პოეტია, მე კი ის გოიმური პოზიცია დავიკავე, სადაც უდარდელი მდიდარი საუბრობს ისეთ მაღალ ფარდოვან მოვლენაზე, როგორიცაა ბრიტანული ნეორომანტიკა... თან სად? თბილისში...
June 13, 2019
Favorites:
'Fern Hill'
'I have longed to move away'
'And death shall have no dominion'
'Here in this spring'
'Ears in the turrets hear'
and the timeless 'Do not go gentle into that good night'.
'Fern Hill'
'I have longed to move away'
'And death shall have no dominion'
'Here in this spring'
'Ears in the turrets hear'
and the timeless 'Do not go gentle into that good night'.
August 19, 2020
DT was a great poet, no question. The spectacular way he put words together is, IMO, largely unmatched in English language poetry. But he is, to my mind, often just as spectacularly opaque in the meaning of his verse. I find this frustrating. I believe the main purpose of poetry should be to communicate, not to impress. Communicate, that is, not just to aesthetes and academics and others who tend toward literary snobbery, but to normal, relatively intelligent human beings. This is why I find much of Pound, Eliot, and other more contemporary poets so hard to like.
Don't get me wrong. When DT gets it right, few can touch him. That's why, for example, "Do not go gentle into that good night" is so very popular--and rightfully so. It's one of my very favorites. I just wish he'd used his phenomenal gift for language to communicate with the mass of us more directly more often.
Still, having said that, even his most puzzling poems are a real treat to read aloud. I find myself loving them even though I have no clue what they mean. That's why a comprehensive collection such as this one is such a feast for the tongue.
It was also most edifying to be able to trace the development of his verse through his too-short career. Being a dog lover, one of the poems I loved most was chronologically one of his first: "The Song of the Mischievous Dog". Some others I truly loved: "And death shall have no dominion", "Ballad of the Long-Legged Bait", "The Hunchback in the Park", "Elegy", "In My Craft or Sullen Art", "Fern Hill". The list goes on.
As I said at the top, a great poet. If you have any interest at all in modern English verse seek this volume out and don't just read it--buy it, cherish it, read it aloud to any and all who will listen! DT possessed a unique poetic voice. It deserves to resound through space and time as long as there are mouths to sing his words and ears to hear them.
Don't get me wrong. When DT gets it right, few can touch him. That's why, for example, "Do not go gentle into that good night" is so very popular--and rightfully so. It's one of my very favorites. I just wish he'd used his phenomenal gift for language to communicate with the mass of us more directly more often.
Still, having said that, even his most puzzling poems are a real treat to read aloud. I find myself loving them even though I have no clue what they mean. That's why a comprehensive collection such as this one is such a feast for the tongue.
It was also most edifying to be able to trace the development of his verse through his too-short career. Being a dog lover, one of the poems I loved most was chronologically one of his first: "The Song of the Mischievous Dog". Some others I truly loved: "And death shall have no dominion", "Ballad of the Long-Legged Bait", "The Hunchback in the Park", "Elegy", "In My Craft or Sullen Art", "Fern Hill". The list goes on.
As I said at the top, a great poet. If you have any interest at all in modern English verse seek this volume out and don't just read it--buy it, cherish it, read it aloud to any and all who will listen! DT possessed a unique poetic voice. It deserves to resound through space and time as long as there are mouths to sing his words and ears to hear them.
October 6, 2025
Brutal.
Sería un borracho, pero un borracho mucho más iluminado y elegante que Bukowski.
Viva Gales.
Sería un borracho, pero un borracho mucho más iluminado y elegante que Bukowski.
Viva Gales.
July 2, 2018
Grief Thief Of Time
Grief thief of time crawls off,
The moon-drawn grave, with the seafaring years,
The knave of pain steals off
The sea-halved faith that blew time to his knees,
The old forget the cries,
Lean time on tide and times the wind stood rough,
Call back the castaways
Riding the sea light on a sunken path,
The old forget the grief,
Hack of the cough, the hanging albatross,
Cast back the bone of youth
And salt-eyed stumble bedward where she lies
Who tossed the high tide in a time of stories
And timelessly lies loving with the thief.....
Grief thief of time crawls off,
The moon-drawn grave, with the seafaring years,
The knave of pain steals off
The sea-halved faith that blew time to his knees,
The old forget the cries,
Lean time on tide and times the wind stood rough,
Call back the castaways
Riding the sea light on a sunken path,
The old forget the grief,
Hack of the cough, the hanging albatross,
Cast back the bone of youth
And salt-eyed stumble bedward where she lies
Who tossed the high tide in a time of stories
And timelessly lies loving with the thief.....
March 7, 2008
I think I love Dylan Thomas's poems mostly for their intriguing and ever-inviting titles. They tempt you into their world and then you are totally captivated. Like..."Time enough to rot", "We have the fairy tales by heart", "We who are young are old"...He enchants us with his perfect poetry. He turns ordinary moments into word magic. This particular edition (which the pages are mysteriously repeated around page 226?)is great as it includes a preface written by Thomas himself. He explains his reason for writing and it is so enlightening. He was influenced by Mother Goose and nursery rhymes? He "fell in love" with words at a young age and is still "at the mercy of words". Well, he is dead now...But listen as he gives us the secret to all of poetry in this preface. Poetry is enjoyment. "Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing."
June 11, 2013
Dylan Thomas has an awesome grasp on the craft of poetry. I was very hesitant to read this after my less-than-understanding of Sylvia Plath, but Mr. Thomas was born to write. The book had a lot of steam in the beginning and lost me in his metaphors towards the end, but otherwise this collection of poetry is worth a solid three stars. Thomas, much like Dorothy Parker, has a penchant for writing about death (Do Not Go Gently, anyone?). These are his best poems: the ones where he (or his protagonists) face death and God head on. I can see why Bob Dylan copped his last name from Thomas. In today's world Dylan Thomas would have made a fierce lyricist and even rapper (seriously, try rapping some of his poems). Anyone who has a hard grasp on the English language is worth a second look. Brava, Mr. Thomas.You haven't gone gently - or at all.
June 3, 2010
I'll admit that in the past I've been quite put off by poetry in general. However, in my attempts to find some poetry I can connect with, I have discovered Dylan Thomas. This collection of his poems is absolutely beautiful. Thomas writes of love, life, death, youth, old age, nature and countless other things that create a body of work that is exquisite and rich. My favorite poems include "Since, On a Quiet Night", "There's Plenty in the World", "Youth Calls to Age", "Let it be Known" and "Light, I Know, Treads the Ten Million Stars".
October 25, 2015
This is a really nice collection of Dylan Thomas's poetry and includes several of his most famous such as 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night'
Thomas's poetry isn't always the most accessible but it is none the less worth persevering with. The guidance notes at the back of the book which provide some background behind each poem are a particularly good feature.
Thomas had an obsession with death which often shows up in his poetry.
Thomas's poetry isn't always the most accessible but it is none the less worth persevering with. The guidance notes at the back of the book which provide some background behind each poem are a particularly good feature.
Thomas had an obsession with death which often shows up in his poetry.
November 4, 2012
The fact that Daniel Jones edited and notated this volume is significant, as he was Thomas' collaborator and lifelong friend. It is shocking to realize that the majority of his 200 or so poems were written before age 21. Recently, I resumed a high school project to memorize his poems. I'm not optimistic, but his poems do sound wonderful out loud.
August 9, 2014
The earlier poems were dense and imagery-laden, such that I felt as though I were drowning in beautiful words. Poems about women or with sexual themes squicked me out with the awareness, in the back of my head, of objectification. But I liked the poems with ocean images, and rereading Fern Hill and Do Not Go Gentle was lovely. New favorites: I Fellowed Sleep and In Dreams (a very early poem).
September 27, 2007
My favorites are IF I WERE TICKLED BY THE RUB OF LOVE & 146: POEM IN OCTOBER. I declare a favorite and then find another equally or surpassingly exquisite. Bob Dylan and Dylan Thomas both do this to me! Damn, I love my Dylans!
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