Dylan Thomas

So this blog, thus far at least, has been a survey of major American poets. But... I want to share with you the work of Dylan Thomas, a poet from Wales who wrote in the early part of the 20th century. He lived, wrote and struggled in NYC so we'll count him as an honorary American.

Dylan Thomas is best known for his poem, "Do not go gentle into that good night." I was thinking of this beautiful, haunting poem because I just started our unit in Transcendentalism. The spirit of Thoreauvian "sucking out the marrow of life," living each life to the fullest, is apparent in this bold rant against death. He urges us to live every moment and "rage against the dying of the light." He embraces the imagery of light as life that Thoreau invokes when he says that "the sun is but a morning star."

In this poem, called a villanelle (a nineteen line poem with two rhymes throughout), Thomas addresses his dying father and encourages him to fight the cold hand of death. It's a son's rejection of his father's mortality and the insistence of using your strength and embracing life even when things seem hopeless. It's a poem that those of us who have lost loved ones can relate to, and it speaks to the broader human desire to retain youthful vitality and put off death for as long as possible.

You may remember this poem from the movie, "Dead Poets' Society," a masterpiece featuring Robin Williams as Mr. Keating, the inspiring English teacher at a boys' boarding school. He invokes Dylan Thomas, as well as Thoreau and Emerson, to encourage the boys to live a life of purpose and meaning. If you haven't watched this movie, YOU MUST. It's mandatory viewing.

Do not go gentle into that good night by 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.

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.