Collected Poems

by Dylan Thomas

One of the greatest poets of the twentieth century, Dylan Thomas prepared this collection of ninety poems shortly before his early death in 1953. These are the poems he felt best represented his work, and this collection honors the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death. In addition to the textual corrections in this revised edition (originally published as The Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas in 1953 by New Directions), a short chronology of the poet’s life and an index of titles’ and first lines have been added as well as the unfinished poem “In Country Heaven.”

(Alternate Cover to: 9780811215428)

Genres: Poetry, Classics, Fiction, Literature, 20th Century, British Literature, Collections

203 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1952

About the author

Dylan 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.

Reviews

[Paul Bryant · Rating 3 out of 5]

I work in an office where we get a zillion phone calls from all over the world. The people who call us are doctors or clinicians who have a problem with one of the many clinical trials we manage. About half of the time the callers have broken English, and in a few cases they have no English so we get a translator by calling a translation service and conferencing them into the call. This one particular evening a female co-worker - we'll call her Sarah because it was Sarah - got this call from a guy who needed a translator. He was talking in Portuguese, a language which sounds beautiful to non-Portuguese-speaking English people. So anyway, the translator introduces herself and Sarah asks the translator to ask the guy what his problem is. Translator turns that into Portuguese. Guy talks in Portuguese a while. Translator pauses then says to Sarah "The gentleman says that he is calling from Brazil and asks if you would be willing to perform oral sex for him. He has money to pay." Sarah doesn't lose the beat and says "Can you please explain that it appears he may have the incorrect telephone number and that we are a clinical trial management company." Translator turns that into Portuguese. Guy apologises and rings off. Sarah thanks the translator and the call ends.

In this analogy, we are all Sarah, every literary critic who's ever written about Dylan Thomas is the translator, and Dylan Thomas is some dickhead from Brazil who sounds so beautiful until you find out he's talking about oral sex all the time.

[Flo · Rating 4 out of 5]

A process in the weather of the heart

A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.

A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.

A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,
Slow in a sleeping wind.

A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.

A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.


Nov 08, 16
* Also on my blog.

[Sean Barrs · Rating 4 out of 5]

“Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.”



I’m twenty-four very soon and I share a certain sense of affinity with this poem. Sometimes it’s tricky to know exactly what to do with life. People often say the teenage years are the hardest we face, full of uncertainty and confusing emotions, but I disagree: I have found my twenties much, much, harder.

For me, Dylan’s poem here captures a certain sense of inevitability. Dylan says “I advance as long as forever is” but how do we advance? There’s a lifetime ahead of us, a long journey to take. We all approach the same final destination, death, but what we do on the way under the ravenous sun is up to each of us. I think it’s a difficult time of life. I will be glad when I am eventually settled and know what pit stops will be on the journey. Twenties are much harder because what we do now has the potential to define us for the rest of our lives.

I do like this poem, and a few of the others in here, though my absolute favourite is this:

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.

Isn’t it so powerful and inspiring? Can you not feel the power of the message? It’s a simple one, one we should all heed. Do not go gentle, do not go easy, do not give up, fight until the very end. I find it truly uplifting. When death is upon us, stay strong.

It can also be read as a shout, an angry outburst against the injustice of life. All life dies. Our “creator” has deemed it so. The poem, in a sense, is a rage against this. It is a bold statement that suggests, although the inevitable is coming, we don’t necessarily have to embrace it with open arms. We cannot conquer death, but that doesn’t mean we have to go gentle into that final goodnight. We can spit in its face and struggle for every last heartbeat.

From these two poems alone you can see his preoccupation with death. It dominates much of his writing and clearly played on his mind through his life. His attitude changed somewhat as he got older and it’s quite interesting to look at how this developed. The death of his farther played a huge role in his life.However, that being said, some of the poems felt terribly similar. Dylan references “my red veins” SO many times that the metaphor (or whatever he was trying to say) becomes a little redundant. More diversity is needed within his writing I think for him to be considered a great poet. He also used similar colours to describe very different things across his writing which felt very strange.

All in all, I really do like his writing. He wrote one of my favourite poems, though not all of his work is of the same quality.

[withdrawn · Rating 4 out of 5]

This review is about me much more than about the poetry of Dylan Thomas. You can skip to the second last paragraph to read an excerpt from a Thomas poem if you like.

Reading this collection transported me to another time and place in my life. It was a time and place when I sought depth in my life. A time and place when I was much younger, much poorer, seeking love and sex and meaning.

In December 1967, I travelled from the small community in which I lived to the city to see my first rock concert, Jefferson Airplane. I really just wanted to "feed my head". The best part was that at that concert, I met a girl (or should l say, she once met me). Yeah I got picked up at my first rock concert.

After the concert, she took me to a coffeehouse in a church basement (The Winged Ox). Think dark, smokey and folk music. And there was a guy doing Leonard Cohen. I was totally caught in the moment. Girl, music, atmosphere and the words of Cohen. She was my Suzanne except that she was Bonnie.

So what has this to do with Collected Poems , 1934-1952 by Dylan Thomas? Think about Cohen's songs and poems: love, sex, religion, death - all served up in a dark, damp atmosphere that is so like our own lives. Just as I was swept up by Cohen (and Bonnie of course), I found myself swept up by Thomas while reading this, sans Bonnie. (Perhaps Thomas is a bit damper.)

Now you would expect me to explicate this thesis but I will leave that for somebody's master degree thesis. I only ask for a footnote.

A bit of Dylan Thomas (from the poem 'If I were tickled by the rub of love):

"I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.
And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his sex
From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six Feet in the rubbing dust.
And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor."

After that night, I quit high school, moved to the city and devoted myself to being a 'hippie'. Bonnie? She quickly dropped me, moved to Calgary and, last I heard, became a bartender. (How Leonard Cohen is that?) (Dylan Thomas would have met her in the bar.)

[Erik Graff · Rating 5 out of 5]

Cannabis was so prevalent by the end of high school and beginning of college, my need to belong so great, that I was a regular user on weekends. Eventually, however, having explored the action of the drug to the extent of taking enough hashish as to be unable to move, absorbed in drifting over brilliant kaleidoscopically checkered fields, I recognized that I wasn't learning anything new. Marihuana made me silly, made me hungry, made me sleepy, left me with a hangover the next day, a mild stupor. None of this was very important or very interesting. I pretty much stopped taking the stuff.

There were, however, exceptions. One, of course, was music. I could understand why my musician friends liked the stuff. The other was music's cousin, poetry.

Thank heavens I was forced to read so much poetry in the public schools! I have some acquaintance with the major English and American poets because of it--some too with the Germans in translation. But, come college, there was no time for such indulgence. Time constraints being what they were, the poems that were assigned in some classes were read quickly, silently and with little enjoyment. The music was lost, only the concepts were obtained, enough to get by in class. Weed, the great time-waster, provided a fortuitous exception to the rule, an exception that remains vivid to this day.

It was a weekend in the winter of sophomore year. I had gotten stoned, gotten introspective and had wandered off to a lounge on north campus, leaving my partying friends. Not being sleepy, not liking my typically self-critical thoughts, I had prudentially grabbed a book, Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas. Normally, under the influence, reading wasn't easy. Printed words played like eels in shifting, shallow waters. Reading was slow going, distractive, the mind going hither and yon much like the eels. But I had never tried poetry before.

To focus, and because his style so obviously demands vocalization, I read the poems aloud, sittling there alone on an ugly couch in an ugly lounge. They were beautiful, impressive. I read a poem, got the concept, the pattern, and read it again, better, with understanding, with proper emphasis. I did my best with what I imagined to be a Welch accent, an imitation of his voice from "A Child's Christmas in Wales" which Father had listened to yearly. Certain of the critical faculties being shot, it sounded pretty good. It was quite enjoyable, baroquely enriching. I forgot to be depressed, staying up the night with the music of Dylan Thomas.

[Markus · Rating 3 out of 5]

Dylan Thomas Collected Poems
(1914-1953)

“Visions of creation and mortality.”

I read this from cover to cover, to make sure I had not missed a gem. But no.

Reluctantly, but truthfully I must confess that I could not connect to these poems.

I found the vocabulary plain, if not vulgar in many cases, and repetitive,
the formulation and style deconstructed.

In most cases, I understand the words but not the meaning of the sentence or even the complete poem.

Emotions called upon are dark, plaintiff, accusative, mortality, death.

The volume contains 156 pages of poems and about 100 pages of ‘Notes.’

The work seems to need a lot of explanation.

The author is celebrated as one of the great poets of this century.

[Richard Alex Jenkins · Rating 4 out of 5]

I haven't read this entire collection and my TBR kind of prevents me from doing so, but a quick shout out to Dylan Thomas for the amazing poem called 'Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night'.

I was born in Wales, my forefathers are Welsh, and Dylan Thomas was born in Swansea himself, just up the road from me in Neath.

It's a very emotional poem about never giving up and fighting to the end.

Here's the first stanza:
"
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.
"

In Welsh speak, well done boyo, this is great stuff.

[Nina · Rating 5 out of 5]

Dylan Thomas knows how to write in a visually stunning way. His use of imagery is rather original and unexpected, and his poetry is not always meant to be easily understood, whereas you can follow and understand what he says intuitively in other parts. This does not take anything away from the impressive creation of unique poetry at all, and if you like poetry full of symbols and allusions to religion, death, life and more, this title could be right on spot.
5 out of 5 stars

[Matt · Rating 4 out of 5]

Just a master of sheer language.

His poetry works on your inner consciousness, you feel it and hear it before you think it.

Untangling his syntax and his associations makes for some interesting reading all its own.

His name meant "wave", as in the ocean, in Welsh.

He said his three biggest influences were Yeats (I think), The Bible, and Freud.

Imagine this simmering stew, this cauldron if you will, and you've got yourself something rich, evocative, stormy, and powerful.

It's the goshdarn lifeforce incarnate.

Go to the smaller, more obscure poems first. Get yourself tied up in the bog water of his preoccupations before you read the stuff that's more plainspoken.

I mean, this is LYRIC poetry. it's being sung. And there's that rich history of pseudo-gaelic that makes the language edible and raw and bone-blunt.

I can't say enough about this guy, he's held me in rapture for years. I can't even focus on it too well since he is so visceral and obscure in all the best ways.

[Alan · Rating 5 out of 5]

Where I began writing, during a fine undergrad English major. "Days of daisies, swaying lazily,/ Light and easy, breeze-blown days" and
"Love-burst firth, froth on the sluicing sea/ Foams on the rolling, beating surf..." The first I submitted to enter a poetry writing class, and I was admitted--by Archibald MacLeish. Later, in grad school at Minnesota, I set Dylan Thomas's "Death Shall Have No Dominion" to music*,
SATB, organ, fleugel horn, cello and trombone. (It's on google+, linked to "Blues for AJ Take One" on Youtube.) I memorized a half hour of DT,
not that easy, for Fern Hill has half lines where the mind can skip forward to a similar half-line.
Later still we toured Wales four times, and stopped in Laugharne at a B&B which was previously a bar where the poet hung out. I was shocked to see Fern Hill the farm in town, on a knoll a hundred yards above the old square. I volunteered to recite some DT at his cottage, now a teahouse. For some tea. No go, "But you can recite some of his poems." I,"No, like Dylan Thomas, I only recite when remunerated--if only by tea."

*May 5, New Bedford Unitarian Chuch, 11 A.M service, I'm having my setting performed honoring my wife who passed away recently. She played cello when 1st performed 40 years ago at Fall river Unitarian Church.

[Liz Janet · Rating 4 out of 5]

"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."

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

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 spindraft 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.

[Cheryl · Rating 4 out of 5]

Dylan Thomas was first recognized after the publication in 1934 of "Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines".
Light breaks where no sun shine;
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glow-worms in their heads
The things of light
File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bone. (more)

Critics wrote that his work is "too narrow and suffers from verbal extravagance". Robert Lowell wrote "he is a dazzling obscure writer who can be enjoyed without understanding". Generally, 20th century criticism ignored rather than studied his work because it failed to fit standard narratives.

In my reading of his poems, I can understand the critics's view, but I agree with Robert Lowell.

In his poem Elegy, Thomas wrote
O deepest wound of all that he should die
On that darkest day. Oh, he could hide
The tears out of his eyes, too proud to cry.

Until I die he will not leave my side.

Dylan Thomas died in New York City in 1953. He was 39.

[Mark Bailey · Rating 4 out of 5]

Famously lyrical and emotional, the uniqueness of Thomas's work deems him difficult to categorise, complicated further by his refusal to be attributed to any literary group. Most scholars and critics have shoehorned his work into the early 20th century movement of romanticism, due to the impassionate, natural and social aspects of his poems.

Thomas developed an obsession with words, and like other writers such as James Joyce before him, focused on their sound and rhythm and the possibilities of double meanings. As a result, some of his work can be seen as inaccessible and too complex.

The Swansea-born master of the surreal and symbolic led a turbulent personal life, of which can be seen documented in a series of his published letters throughout his career, including prolonged physical issues from early childhood, infidelity and alcoholism.
His writing shed in a boathouse where he lived for the last four years of his life is available to visit in the town of Laugharne, Carmarthenshire, Wales and is well worth a visit.

Recommend: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, The Song of the Mischievous Dog, And Death Shall Have No Dominion, Fern Hill.

[Loretta · Rating 4 out of 5]

I have obviously heard of Dylan Thomas before, but I don’t think I’ve ever read any of his poetry before.

After seeing a YouTube video where Johnny Depp visits Dylan Thomas’s (his all time favorite) home in Swansea, Wales, I was intrigued. So much so that off to my small town library I went to see what I could find. Lo and behold, one book was found!

Poems were easily read and had depth.

I would recommend this small book to new readers of Dylan Thomas or to seasoned readers, and to readers who are just new to poetry or to those of us who actually enjoy reading poetry!

[John Anthony · Rating 3 out of 5]

2.5*

Call me a philistine by all means. The sad truth is that the Welsh word wizard failed to rock my boat. I appreciated the lilting rhythms, the clever imagery, the brilliantly innovative use of words, the alliterative genius… all that. But I struggled to find meanings. Normally after a couple of readings I ‘get it’ (or at least some of the poet’s vibe) but I generally failed miserably here and I got crosser and crosser [probably more with myself than D.T.]

There were of course some wonderful exceptions: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, the unfinished Elegy, again about the death of his father. Then also A Winter’s Tale which I could quote here in full and argue against myself:

“In the poles of the year
When blackbirds died like priests in the cloaked hedge row
And over the cloth of counties the far hills rode near,
Under the one leaved trees ran a scarecrow of snow
And fast through the drifts of the thickets antlered like deer,”……………….

But there were all the other inaccessible would-be gems, which left me cold.

I hope I can find an audio version of the collected poems. This may well convey the riches that I’ve missed here in my hopeless reading.

[Chris · Rating 2 out of 5]

I tried to like it. God knows how hard I tried. The first half of the book was much more comprehensible than the last. The poems I did understand were absolutely amazing, which makes me think I'm just missing out on the poems I can't understand. Much of his stuff really seems like a word game to him. He toys with the meanings and sounds of words, actually calling himself in a letter to a friend "a freak user of words." He feathers out a word and seizes a single strand of meaning from our million-layered terms, so that I hardly recognize the word at all. I love the thought of pushing language to it's furthest limits and seeing what emotional/intuitive stuff it's made of, but so much at this level was lost to me. I feel like I could have progressed much farther with someone to help me through it.

I hate giving a low rating to a book that I think has a lot of potential, but I have to be honest and say that it fell short of really moving me. I'm stuck with the question, "Was only part of it brilliant, or am I unable to keep up?" I seriously believe the latter.

Maybe some of you Dylan Thomas fans out there can give me some direction.

[Greg · Rating 4 out of 5]

How do you criticize a volume of poetry such as this? These are not ideas, these are words, formed together, which create ideas reflexively. The language is psychedelic, romantic, beautiful, paradoxical, mesmerizing. I love the opening stanzas of Fern Hill :

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honored among wagons I was prince of the apple towns,
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams...


(178)

Or maybe we should turn to II of I See The Boys Of Summer:
But seasons must be challenged or they totter
Into a chiming quarter
Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;
There, in his night, the black-tongued bells
The sleepy man of winter pulls,
Nor blows back mon-and-midnight as she blows.” (2)

At times the language is absolutely haunting, as in the finish to To-Day, This Insect:
Death: death of Hamlet and the nightmare madmen,
An air-drawn windmill on a wooden horse,
John’s beast, Job’s patience, and the fibs of vision,
Greek in the Irish sea the ageless voice:
‘Adam I love, my madmen’s love is endless,
No tell-tale love has an end more certain,
All legends’ sweethearts on a tree of stories,
My cross of tales behind the fabulous curtain.’ (48)

What does it all mean? Surely I’m not sure. I suspect that, as with most prophetic words, one sees in them the ideas one wants to see, and the words give shape to nascent vision between every set of ears reading the wonderful lines.

[Lauren · Rating 5 out of 5]

YES.

[Donovan Richards · Rating 5 out of 5]

Taking Time to Experience the Known

Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, I feel as if I know Mt. Si. An iconic rock formation in the Cascade foothills, it is an easily identified landmark signifying entrance into the mountains through Interstate 90. It’s an integral part of the region, something you would assuredly mention to an out-of-towner if you happened to drive past it.

But recognition is a different phenomenon than true experience. I still haven’t endeavored to hike the full mountain, but my understanding of the space has become more integrated when I spent a day-trip lumbering up the Little Si trail.

For me, this same principle applies to Dylan Thomas. A seminal influencer of many musicians I hold in high regard, the Thomas brand of poetry is something I’ve identified from afar. I even count his famous poem, “Do not go gentle into that good night,” as one of my all-time favorites.
Nevertheless, I felt it high time to engage in a deep-dive with Thomas’ compiled work, Collected Poems.

A collection of poems spanning Thomas’ career, Collected Poems provides ample evidence to a specific style and content focus.

On Death

Central to much of Thomas’ content is the idea of death and the frailty of life. Death, it seems, functions as the endpoint, the conclusion of narrative.

“In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death” (24).

Thomas often leans on the symmetry of life and death and the lengths to which humanity operates in avoidance of that final act.

“I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen
Twice in the feeding sea, grown
Stale of Adam’s brine until, vision
Of new man strength, I seek the sun” (31).

Here, it almost seems as if Thomas searches for beginnings hoping that the new will always push aside the inevitable demise of the human being.

On Tenacity

Not only is death a common motif in Thomas’ poetry, it also operates as the subjects around which Thomas submits a tenacious attitude. Perhaps most famously in “Do not go gentle into that good night” Thomas argues,

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light” (123).

The reader feels the resolute spirit of Thomas often during Collected Poems. While death plays a central role in all of life, it will not govern us. Consider this passage:

“And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion” (73).

Surely death will come, but it shouldn’t influence the tasks we must attend today.
For this reason, Thomas always seems caught in the middle between an obsession with the end and the fight to not let the end influence the present. He concludes his compilation pondering,

“Last sound, the world going out without a breath:
Too proud to cry, too frail to check the tears,
And caught between two nights, blindness and death” (193).

“Caught between” seems to define Thomas’ view of life and his expressions throughout his poetry.

Finding the Takeaway

Stylistically, Collected Poems illustrates the unique characteristics of Thomas’ poetry. Often, the takeaway line—the most intriguing and artistic line intended to be exceptionally quotable—occurs at the conclusion of the poem. Each preceding line sets up the final point with gravitas.

Not so with Thomas.

His takeaway line occurs at the beginning, with expansion on the line building out from stanza to stanza.

Much like my trip to Mt. Si, reading Collected Poems gave me a better understanding of an author I thought I knew. Collected Poems affirms my thoughts on Dylan Thomas as a premier poet and I am glad to see his body of work is consistently good.

If you are like me and you know of Dylan Thomas, bite the bullet and read Collected Poems. Hey, even if you’ve never heard of Dylan Thomas and you generally like poetry, Collected Poems is worth your time.

Originally published at http://www.wherepenmeetspaper.com

[Steven Godin · Rating 5 out of 5]

What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And prick the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.

- - -

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

- - -

Loving on this sea banged guilt
My holy lucky body
Under the cloud against love is caught and held and kissed
In the mill of the midst
Of the descending day, the dark our folly
Cut to the still star in the order of the quick
But blessed by such heroic hosts in your every
Inch and glance that wound
Is certain god, and the ceremony of souls
Is celebrated there, and communion between suns.
Never shall my self chant
About the saint in shades while the endless breviary
Turns of your prayed flesh, nor shall I shoo the bird below
me:
The death biding two lie lonely.

- - -

Open a pathway through the slow sad sail,
Throw wide to the wind the gates of the wandering boat
For my voyage to begin to the end of my wound,
We heard the sea sound sing, we saw the salt sheet tell.
Lie still, sleep becalmed, hide the mouth in the throat,
Or we shall obey, and ride with you through the drowned.

[Anima · Rating 4 out of 5]

Light breaks where no sun shines

‘Light breaks where no sun shines;
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glow-worms in their heads,
The things of light
File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.
...
Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics dies,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.”

A process in the weather of the heart
‘A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm. ’

[Eslam الغني · Rating 4 out of 5]

In Interstellar Movie,DR.Bernard "Michael Chaine"kept repeating these lines,of one of the remarkable poems of the heavenly-gifted poet Dylan Thomas:

"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"

Christopher Nolan the distinguished director,quoted the lines of one of the most influential poets of the twentieth century, and one of my favorites no question...

Oh,unique,genius,inspiring welsh poet

Rest in peace Dear Dylan,Rest in ETERNAL PEACE...

[motherjanemisty · Rating 4 out of 5]

made even better for the fact that my used copy had some old rolling papers inside and reeked of cigs, really set the mood

[Christina M Rau · Rating 3 out of 5]

Dylan Thomas is the unhappiest poet I've ever read. I've read poems about rape and incest that didn't make me feel this horrible.

"Do Not Go Gentle" is usually the way young people find Thomas, or at least people of my generation who walked around quoting the hot guy from the Michelle Pfeiffer flick, Dangerous Minds: "You've got to RAGE against the DYING of the LIGHT!" That dude dies because he doesn't knock on a door. Michelle Pfeiffer becomes the apple of the unruly students' collective eye. Coolio goes on to sue Weird Al Yankovic for satirzing "Gangsta's Paradise" because he (allegedly) never gave Weird Al permission to use the song because the song was too important to be satirized. Years later, Hilary Swank films Freedom Writers, a complete rip-off of Dangerous Minds; instead of reading, they write. In any case, "Do Not Go Gentle" is the featured poem in the Dylan-Dylan contest in the movie that asks the students to find a poem by Dylan Thomas that conveys the same message as a Bob Dylan song, like "Mr. Tambourine Man."

"Do Not Go Gentle" is a plea to a father to fight against death. Though death is involved, it's not as gloomy. I thought that an entire collection of raging against death could not be so gloomy.

I wanted to slit my wrists with the pages of the book by the time I was halfway into it. Alas, it was an old book, and the pages were not crisp enough. So I read on, all about death, dark, death, melancholy, aching, longing, death, more death, dreariness, darkness, death.

Some bright sides:

"If I Were Tickled By The Rub Of Love" is the only playful poem I found. It made me not want to die so much.

"When, Like A Running Grave" is not so gloomy, yet it uses Cadaver more than any other poem I've ever seen.

"A Grief Ago," "Alterwise By Owl-Light," "The Tombstone Told When She Died," "Deaths and Entrances," and "Once Below A Time" are all thoughtful, not gloomy for gloom's sake, and use language skillfully. "This Side Of Truth" also offers a different take on death, questioning what truth is, what life is, and what death is if we don't know the answers to the first two questions. He also has a set of concrete poems in all different shapes, some like a diamond, others like an hourglass, which most likely signifies time is running out.

So if you find yourself in a moment of euphoria and you need to come down, pick up Dylan Thomas's collected poems.

[Elizabeth · Rating 5 out of 5]

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.

[Nicky · Rating 5 out of 5]

What can one say about Dylan Thomas that has not been said? I suspect I start many of my reviews of classic books like that, but it's true -- I don't know where to start. Dylan Thomas' poetry is amazing, particularly the ones like 'Prologue', where the first line rhymes with the last, the second with the penultimate line, etc... and it's 102 lines long. I love the ones that work with content appropriate to the form, like the perennial example of his villanelle, 'Do not go gentle into that good night'.

Excuse me while I go off and write poetry and curse my lack of skill.

[John · Rating 4 out of 5]

Most of Dylan Thomas poems were for me difficult to make heads or tails. However, there were a few gems such as my favorite ‘ Do not go gentle into that good night ‘. A poem which is powerful and resonates. I also liked many others such as Fern Hill and Altarwise by owl-light. Other poems were difficult to understand without a background in the classics.

I spent a lot of time looking up the poems to find out their meaning and listened on YouTube to Richard Burton reading them. I still struggled with the interpretations. I will keep the book and return to it now and again.

[Charles Levenstein · Rating 5 out of 5]

Magnificent.

[Jacqueline · Rating 5 out of 5]

Едно от малките удоволствия в живота- да обновиш "колекцията" си от любими автори с ново попълнение. Dylan Thomas обаче не е просто поредно попълнение. Този човек е абсолютно съкровище. След T.S. Eliot ми беше трудно да си представя, че може да се появи някой, дори наполовина толкова завладяващ- е, уелският поет напълно ме опроверга. Всеки стих прелива от разкошни комбинации, преплитания на смисли, игри с езика. Thomas не просто пише- за мен той рисува с думи (макар че доста критици направо си го наричат певец).

Изключително ми допадат мрачните нюанси, които долавях в почти всяко стихотворение (на моменти ми изскачаха неволни асоциации с настроението, което носят някои неща на Edgar Allan Poe, "The Fisherman and his Soul" на Wilde или "Wuthering Heights", например). A и фактът, че едно от вдъхновенията му е бил самият William Blake, говори сам за себе си.

Освен това, тази необяснима връзка на Thomas с морето (и още по-страхотният факт, че на уелски Дилън значело "океан"); винаги осезаемите носталгия и отчаяние по нещо невидимо; умението му да оцени прекрасното и в най-незначителните моменти и неща; преплитането на нежни, романтични "вълни" в душата му, с бурни и неконтролируеми пориви още в следващия миг - е, нямаше как да не остана очарована.

В общи линии, за мен самият Thomas е онази "лампа от светкавица за бедните в мрака". Много жалко, че сам се е предал на доброволно саморазрушение (по думи на жена му). Рядко явление са такива хора- душите им може би просто не издържат на този свят.

Излишно е да обяснявам, че е задължително да се чете в оригинал.
Въпреки това реших да хвърля око и на няколко от българските варианти (в случая имам предвид превода на Александър Шурбанов) и останах приятно изненадана- човекът определено се е постарал:

Нежното морско свличане на реченото трябва да отричам/ Сега моето речено ще бъде мое отрицание
и като макара аз размотавам всеки камък.

("Някога цветът на реченото")

The gentle seaslides of saying I must undo/ Now my saying shall be my undoing,
And every stone I wind off like a reel.

***

та се препънах и засуках болка,
който извиквам днес да се яви като крадец
и спомена, задействан от огледала,
с номера на усмивката си тъй разгулна,
ловкостта на ръката в кадифена ръкавица
и моето сърце цяло под твоя чук,
някога ти бе тъй откровен и весел —
домашен дух без пориви и страсти,
та никога не ми минавате и мисъл,
додето една истина във въздуха отмести,

че колкото и да ми бяха мили
еднакво и налице, и наопак,
приятелите ми са врагове върху кокили
е глави, обвити от коварен облак.

("Не към теб")

***

хлапетата невинни като ягоди

***

Чуй! В отпътували оттук села
певците пеят. Славеят, изсъхналият химн на
погребани гори, с праха на своите крила
лети, обвява мъртъвците с приказката зимна.
Прахът на изворна вода в съсухрени ждрела

говори. Ручей нявга бистроструй
със звън и заливна вода отскача. И росата
върху брашнените листа прозвънва преди туй
от снежен блясък. Вятърът се сучи през скалата.
Времето пее през умряла снежна капка. Чуй!

("Зимна приказка")

***

В тези годишни полюси, кога
запопените косове в шубрака мрат унило
и хълмите далечни стигат чак до нас, сега
под еднолетните дървета снежното плашило
препускаше през преспите с еленови рога

и през молитвите до колене
в бърдата, с викот пряко езерата вкочанели
през времето и племето на снежно ширине
по дирите на птицата чак до зорите бели.
Чуй, виж къде в морето гъше нощем и дене

тя плава — птица, булка, облак лек
през посадените звезди, радост отвъд полята
със семе под разчекнатата плът на смъртен век,
гробът и купелът пламтящ, небето, небесата.

("Зимна приказка")

***

изпод живота ми, който жадува съблазнител
сред слънчевите удари на лятото,

в любов върху морето от вина

("За зла чест на една печална смърт")

***

Източените птици са за тебе, песни полетели
Ваяни птици (...)
разплискано небе с крилата си кръжащи да прорежат

("Kамбанарията проточва шия")

***
Историята моя кой разби?
Годишният ми плет е окуцял от кремък,
коса без ръб и водно острие.
„Кой грабва снимката без образ и оттенък
от утре крачещото битие
вместо с око — с оракул може би?“
Ах, времето така ме прокоби.
„Не ще те стигне времето — Той в миг натърти,
нито зеленото ще изтече.
Кой неизсмукано сърце ще отсече,
о, вий, зелени, неродени и немъртви?“
Видях как времето ме доуби.

("Toгаз бе моят новопосветен")

***

Ти, който даде на морето в образа му цвят
и на събрата ми от глина — образ, а в потопа
небесния ковчег напълни с цветен дубликат;
о, ти, заря на всички карти е образ непознат,
създай от мене свят сега, тъй както аз без злоба
в човешки весел лик превърнах твоя крачещ кръг.

("Подкрепяй зрака")

***

A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.

("A process in the weather of the heart")

***

Invisible, your clocking tides
Break on the lovebeds of the weeds-
The weed of love's left dry;

("Where once the waters of your face")

***

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

("Especially when the October wind")

***

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

("Especially when the October wind")

***

I dump the waxlights in your tower dome.
Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot
Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift,
Love's twilit nation and the skull of state,
Sir, is your doom.

("When like a running grave")

***

There grows the hours' ladder to the sun,
Each rung a love or losing to the last...
("I fellowed sleep")

***

Under the arc of the sky they are unsafe.
What's never known is safest in this life.
("Was there a time")

***

Under the skysigns they who have no arms
have cleanest hands, and, as the heartless ghost
Alone's unhurt, so the blind man sees best.
("Was there a time")

***

Beyond this island bound
By a thin sea of flesh
And a bone coast,
The land lies out of sound
And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish
Disturbs this island’s rest.

("Ears in the turrets hear")

***

Hands grumble on the door,
Ships anchor off the bay,
Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger,
Shall I welcome the sailor,
Or stay till the day I die?

Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,
Hold you poison or grapes?

("Ears in the turrets hear")

***

(Fog by his spring
Soaks up the sewing tides)
("How soon the servant sun")

***

The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder,
The finger joints are cramped with chalk;
A goose's quill has put an end to murder
That put an end to talk.
(...)
The five kings count the dead but do not soften
The crusted wound nor pat the brow;
A hand rules pity as a hand rules heaven;
Hands have no tears to flow.

("The hand that signed the paper")

***

I have been told to reason by the heart,
But heart, like head, leads helplessly;
I have been told to reason by the pulse,
And, when it quickens, alter the actions' pace
Till field and roof lie level and the same
So fast I move defying time, the quiet gentleman
Whose beard wags in Egyptian wind.

I have heard may years of telling,
And many years should see some change.

The ball I threw while playing in the park
Has not yet reached the ground.

("Should lanterns shine")

***

'Rebel against the binding moon
And the parliament of sky,
The kingcrafts of the wicked sea,
Autocracy of night and day,
Dictatorship of sun.'

("Find meat on bones")

***

'The thirst is quenched, the hunger gone,
And my heart is cracked across;'
("Find meat on bones")

***

Love in the frost is pared and wintered by,
The whispering ears will watch love drummed away
Down breeze and shell to a discordant beach,
And, lashed to syllables, the lynx tongue cry
That her fond wounds are mended bitterly.
My nostrils see her breath burn like a bush.

("When all my five and country senses see")

***

Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
(...)
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

("And death shall have no dominion.")

***

To clasp my fury on ground
And clap its great blood down;
Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas
Or poise the day on a horn.
(...)
Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.
You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,
And dug your grave in my breast.

("How shall my animal")

***

She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.

("Love in the asylum")

***

Aлександър Шурбанов за Dylan Thomas:

Някой ден ще отида в този край — дал съм си дума. Искам да се уверя с очите си, че всичко това наистина съществува. Да се събудя в ранна утрин от молитвите на водата, от виковете на гларуси и врани, от потрепването на лодки в кея с проснатите мрежи. Водни птици и птици от крилатите дървета, да понесат над фермите и белите коне едно име, еднакво близко за тях и за мен. И да чуя провлачения облак, изпълнен с пролет от чучулиги, и да зърна по гърба на хълма неочаквано лятното октомврийско слънце. И да премина през шибащия дъжд и студения вятър в гората, тъй далеч под мене. И да открия на предела на сетивата си измокрената морска църквица с размер на охлюв, проврял рогца в мъглата. И пак да ме огрее слънцето. И да изгреят с него ябълковите градчета, реките на обрулената от небето светлина, сеното, високо като къщите, и малкото стопанство като странник бял, завърнало се от нощта с петел на рамо. И може би — о, Господи! — да срещна онова момче, поело на разходка с майка си през хълмите на времето, през притчи слънчеви и през легенди на зеленясали от мъх параклиси, през преповтаряните приказки на детството, несвършващото детство на поезиятa...

***

Първите си уроци младенецът получава от морето, което предпочита пред училището. То го посвещава в необозримостта на вселената и вечността, в безмилостната непрозирност на глъбините, в чиято тъмница се терзаят удавници, в нестихващия ритъм на вълните, които разказват непонятни истории. От класната стая Дилън бяга при морето, вслушва се в тъмните му гласове, отдава се на момчешки лудории с връстниците си из зелените паркове на града, слуша пламенните слова на проповедниците в местната църква и по набързо скованите улични трибуни. Слуша и баща си, който е вдъхновен рецитатор на Шекспировата поезия, а и сам започва да се рови в бащината си библиотека и става безразборен и ненаситен читател, откривател на хиляди омайващи светове между кориците на старите книги. Там открива, и онзи, който ще остави най-трайна следа в душата и ума му — неподражаемия Блейк.

***

С уелското светоусещане и начин на изразяване свързваме звучната риторичност и песенност на неговата поезия, кипящата й многоцветна образност, склонността към хиперболата. Уелският пейзаж предлага материал за цяла система от символи в творчеството му.

***

... дух, чийто кратък живот прилича на отчаяно пътешествие в бурно море. В много отношения Томас е типичен романтик. Грижите на всекидневието не съществуват за него. Той живее изцяло в един свят на сънища. Детските му сънища. И само този свят има реална стойност за него. Един от изследователите на творчеството му, Дейвид Холбрук, отбелязва, че най-болезнената страна на Томасовата поезия е нейната незрялост. Постът не може да приеме спокойно реалностите на възрастния свят — половия нагон, неизбежността на смъртта, необратимостта на времето. Това са все детински страхове, които Томас не успява да преодолее и до края на живота си. И наистина тези страхове пронизват всичко написано от него, превръщат се в основна тема на поезията му. Той не престава да се вълнува от мисълта за тялото си, за сътворението и разрушението на физическия живот, за вечните вериги на времето и пространството, които само сънят може да охлаби. Сънят и въображението на твореца.

***

... въпреки всички несъвършенства поезията на Дилън Томас изгражда една завършена философско-естетическа система. В нея човекът става център на битието. Целият природен свят е организиран около човека и получава импулсите си от човека, додето се уподоби на него, както това става в поемите на Блейк на платната на Ван Гог. Някога Блейк беше извикал: „Където не е човекът, природата е безплодна!“ В едно от писмата си младият още Томас постановява: „Природата не трябва да се боготвори. Природата е такава, каквато я направим.“ Чрез сътворяването на себе си и своя свят човекът преодолява смъртта не като я изключва, а тъкмо наопаки — като я включва в цикъла на вечния генезис.

***

„Едно от най-интересните творения на неговата поезия — пише критикът Уилям Мойниън — всъщност е свят, който е изцяло словесен и напълно способен да замести обикновения материален свят.“ Самият поет заявява, че „Доброто стихотворение е принос към действителността. Светът сече не може да бъде същият, щом към него се е прибавило едно добро стихотворение. Доброто стихотворение помага да се промени формата и значението на вселената, помага да се разшири знанието на всеки за себе си и за околния свят.“ Ако това е така, то очевидно ролята на поета в изграждания от него словесен свят е първостепенна. Той е магьосник на словото, творец на видения, чрез които може да се преодолее хегелианското отчуждение между човек и природа.

Тази демиургска задача на поета изисква от него съчетанието на две почти непримирими същности, които търсят своето трудно постижимо равновесие в творческата природа и дело на Томас. От една страна, имаме работа със спонтанния романтичен дух, който вижда истината за света, в пълната свобода и безредието на сънищата. Тази същност се отразят в смелото рушене на логическо-синтактичните структури на езика, в причудливото натрупване на образност, която сякаш се ръководи единствено от тъмни подсъзнателни асоциации, в привидното отричане от всякаква основна идея на стихотворението в полза на неговото сетивно-емоционално въздействие като живо цяло, което не може да се редуцира до определен мисловен тезис. От друга страна обаче, е необикновената рационално-организираща мощ на лостовия интелект. Самият той решително се разграничава от антирационалността на сюрреалистите, като декларира: „За мене е без значение откъде се извличат образите на едно стихотворение — извличайте ги, ако щете, от най-дълбокото море на скритата същност, но преди да стигнат до хартията, те трябва да преминат, през всички рационални процеси на интелекта. Сюрреалистите обаче поставят своите думи една до друга върху хартията точно тъй, както се появяват от хаоса; те не оформят и не подреждат тези думи: за тях самият хаос е формата и редът. Това ми се струва прекалено самонадеяно — сюрреалистите си въобразяваш, че каквото и да измъкнат от своите подсъзнателни същности и запишат с бои и думи, трябва по принцип да бъде интересно или ценно. Аз отричам, това. Едно от изкуствата на поета е да направи разбираемо и ясно онова, което може да изплава от подсъзнателни източници; една от най-първостепенните служби на интелекта е, да подбира от аморфната маса подсъзнателни образи, онези, които най-добре ще съдействуват за неговата творческа цел — да напише най-доброто стихотворение, на което е способен.“

***

"Ако Дилън Томас разрушава безпощадно познатия ни свят на опитоменото и обезличено, полуумъртвено от граматични правила и обичайна употреба слово, то не е за да ни изправи пред безнадеждните му руини, а за да го претвори в ново, неподражаемо, живо единство. И затова той подхваща неуморна, почти свръхчовешка борба за възраждане на словото, за включването му в непознати многозначителни съчетания, в цели нововъзникващи системи, в които то участвува не само със смисъла, но най-вече с оживялата си след дългата немара телесна обвивка от звукове, ритми, едва доловими еха. Томас е вдъхновен и ненаситен ковач на думи; преводът може да предаде само малка част от тях: грехояд, ветроизвор, тигръв, кръстоположни птици, лунногриво племе, гробокопитни жребци. Той споява привидно несъвместимото, за да смеси пространството с времето: „цяло слънце беше тичане“, „честит през цялото сърце“, сетивното е мисловното: „небесносини занимания“, „в агнебелите си дни“, живото с мъртвото: „римоплетецът в дългоезичната си стая“. Размества и разбърква частите на изречението така, че да престанем да мислим за техния ред и да се отдадем докрай на безбройните внушения на думите.

Томас признава, че думите са го завладели още от най-ранна възраст предимно чрез своето звучене така, както ги е чувал в детските стихчета, а по-късно и в поезията за възрастни, все още недостъпна за възприятието на детето. Тези думи за него са същото, „което звънът на камбани, звуците на музикални инструменти, шумовете, на вятъра, морето и дъжда, грохотът на млекарските каруци, трополенето на копита по паважа, докосването на вейки до прозореца биха били за някой глух по рождение, който по чудо е почнал да чува“. От това първо необяснимо влюбване в думите Томас скоро стига до съзнанието, че трябва да ги опознае в тънкости и да им се посвети изцяло, както майсторът занаятчия се посвещава на материала, е, който работи, за да може да извае от него своите видения. „Аз съм усърден, съвестен, всеотдаен и лукав словоделец“ — изповядва в едно интервю поетът. И наистина, където и да разгърнеш няколкото му стихотворни книги, ще откриеш белезите на несравнимо професионално майсторство. Стивън Спендър го нарича „поет, обладан от думите, лингвистичен гений“.

***

Един трудолюбив мечтател, педантичен романтик, дълбокомислен певец — колко още подобни оксиморони бихме могли да натрупаме, преди да успеем да опишем противоречивата, почти невъзможна природа на поета.

Трудностите при възприемането на този подвеждащо сладкогласен певец произтичат от неговия страстен стремеж към синкретизъм. Той иска от всяко свое стихотворение да бъде сложно, разнопосочно, многопланово, вътрешно противоречиво и все пак единно като нещата от живота, които ни заобикалят. Защото то трябва да се вмести между тях, да заеме полагащото му се място в действителността.

И ако някой ден наистина стъпя в Уелс, сигурен съм, че ще открия всичко онова, с което са ме облъхнали стиховете, на поета. Че защото непременно е било там, откак свят светува. А защото словесният гений на Дилън Томас вече го е създал и то е станало част от вселената, която обитаваме. Както впрочем и цялата тази вселена, която вече не можем да видим, без да я погледнем през неговите очи.

Онази топка, дето хвърлих в парка, като играех, още не е паднала.