-Dylan Thomas, "Notes on the Art of Poetry"I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,,,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,, ,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.
Tuesday, April 2, 2019
Dylan Thomas
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The improbable, turbulent, untidy character that was Dylan Thomas was not very skilled in the Art of Living. His short life was chaotic –– a veritable a train wreck ––, BUT he was no fake. Both his prose and his poetry are vibrant, exceedingly bright, startlingly fresh, passionately engaged, and original.
Only dolts, Philistines and troglodytes could possibly ignore or remain indfferent to Thomas' work.
This one line from Thomas's 1954 raio play Under Milkweed sums it up very well:
"Isn't like a terrible thing, thank God?"
Yes. Without .the terror –– the continual threat of being hurled into Chaos –– we could never appreciate the wonder , te glory, and the beauty.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
~ Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
_________ Staying in Character _________
Endearing, though preposterous, as you were,
Real affection from persona fake
Incredibly, for your dear children’s sake,
Flowed naturally, –– but with a trace of myrrh.
This bitterness directed just toward you
Betrayed your guilt at living past the norm
Usually accepted as good form.
Oh how easily you’d have gotten through
Demands domestic, if you’d just been steady!
Sadly, however, urges wild and heady
Remained in charge, and so your judges ruled
Maturity you lacked. They’d not been fooled.
Only then –– by showing some resolve
Through queer disguise –– did you your problem solve.
~ FreeThinke
_________ THE UNHOLY TRINITY _________
_________A Mourning Meditation _________
When next you must excrete, please take the time
To gaze upon the contents of the bowl.
You will see there the Naked Face of Crime ––
The Devil’s version of The Trinity ––
A monstrous, odious, tri-partite Whole
Whose stench persists into Infinity.
For Evil stalked and plagued us in The Garden
Tempting us to sacrifice our Soul
For the pleasure of the Nether Region’s Warden.
You will, of course, be eager quick to flush
Away the proof that Hell, indeed, exists,
And yet, like an inebriated lush
A self-destructive passion persists:
The false belief Utopia exists.
~ FreeThinke
Dylan Thomas refused to join Henry Treece's "New Apocalyptics"...
from Wiki: He (Treece) wrote a critical study of Dylan Thomas, called Dylan Thomas – Dog among the fairies, published by Lindsay Drummond, London, in 1949. He and Thomas became estranged over Thomas's refusal to sign up as a New Apocalyptic.
I worship ARTISTS, but abhor critics.
Albert Schweitzer said it best:
"Critics are those who have FAILED in Music and Art."
Even as a boy I tried not to read REVIEWS of plays, concerts, books or movies. I felt i owed it to the authors and the performers to experience what they produced for MYSELF. I've never thought it appropriate for ANYONE to permit OTHERS to tell him, oher or it what to think.
I see "LIT-CRIT" as an illegitimate field –– aparticualrly obnoxious form of PARASITISM.
...but I have to admit, after I've read or experienced great art...I want to know what other people thought about it, and what it meant to them.
That's fine –– as long as you experience it FOR YOURSELF–––– F_I_R_S_T.
As I think you know, I AM an artist both in MUSIC and POETRY. I've also been a reasonably successful JOURNALIST, albeit on a local scale.
I can say THIS with perfect condition: Anything really GOOD I've ever produced came from WITHIN. It all started with a "burning desire" hat I had no pwer to deny.
I've read hunderds of books, seen hundreds of plays, movies, concerts and opera. Naturlly I learned from these highly stimulating experiences, but aside frm acqquirng the ABC's from some pretty good elementary schooling I was lucky to have, I've learned very little from BOOKS.
EXPERIENCE really is the best teacher. Or so it has been for me.
There is an ancient Sufi parable about coffee: "He who tastes, knows; he who tastes not, knows not."
Something as basic as SEX is a good example
There's certainly a world of diference between READING Kraft-Ebbing or The Kinsey Report, TALKING about it, ANALYZING it, and EXPERIENCING it for oneself.
Then one must deal with the issues of how circumstances affect the QUALITY of sexual experience.
Still, I think it's probably better to have had a BAD introduction to sex tan never to have had sex at all. In ther wrds I'd rather have a bowl of oatmeal or a Big Mac than let myself start for lack of the availabiuty of Five-Star Gourmet Cuisine. };^D=
Music, Art, Literature and Gastronomy are similar to sex in that reading ABOUT them is NOTHING compared to seeing, hearing and experiencing them for oneself.
"No one can eat your dinner FOR you."
~ Anonymous sage
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