Fleeting Observations Of A Poet
By skinner_jennifer
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A poem about my thoughts on one of
my favourite poets Dylan Thomas.
This is probably not a true picture,
but reading his work inspired me to
write my own feelings down.
Hushed silence fills the air for this poet in expression;
a free thinker was he, with thunderous bolts of both
confidence and powerful passion untarnished,
imposing...swathing audiences in dramatic metaphors.
Nevertheless: in later life this haggard intemperance,
wildly emanating a storm like rain bouncing off lakes
and rivers of emotion; had repercussions.
Could capturing peace deeply embedded in composed
nostalgia, harvest recollections that entranced? I don't
know much of his past, but I wonder! Did he write in
secret hideouts, receiving pleasure from observing like
myself? Maybe keeping diaries, a gathering of past
frequenters; speaking candidly of Welsh village life,
where ruffled curls whisper, a mother's goodnight.
His voice flies with birds, speaks to hills when
wielding pen with words, driving energy many have
heard; paddling renditions in his wistful memories;
where women with thirst for a man with Utopian
dreams wanted release from harshness, his haven
soaked in ink and parables, these females were
transfixed like bees to pollen.
Was there a boy's childhood wrapped in muddy woods,
with tremulous trees that exploited clear streams of
imagination? Were there bawls of tears from bloody
scraped knees? Did he battle monsters that were really
just in his mind with sticks from ramshackle dens?
Or were these just my own echoes, born energy from
distant memory.
Would charms persistence draw him under cockleshell skies?
Maybe conjuring a vision of struggling fishermen harnessing
mackerel in wrestled nets, as swell releases a tumbled bounty,
then with salty air at their backs; sail into ageless harbours,
where tiny bobbing boats massaged by tides are moored
patiently waiting, while gulls on wing command and battle
for their fishy stash.
Then up slipway again to sup at welcoming Inn
where steady crackle of fire warms the flesh,
before ambling home to bursting aromas rich in
smell and taste, fulfilled comfort of food with wife
and children, before they're all tucked up in bed,
once more those tired men can dream of crystal
oceans deep; that sparkle by moonlight.
Each recital performed increased ascending ideas,
climbing to fame, laced with duty to enthuse,
a platform formula plucked in frail anxiety; that
scuppered his dreams, till trapped in weary web
where danced compositions, that now forever
sleep in restful slumber; for us the reader to
treasure.
Pixabay free image to use.
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Comments
the green fuse drives the flower
I loved his short stories too, like "A child's Christmas in Wales" the one I haven't read is a famous radio play "under Milkwood". He died young, shortly before his 40th birthday I think. We are the poorer off for it. A master of the English language.
I've got BBC tapes of him reading his own work. As the nights clinkling goes so the slurring does. I's a shame.
He was actually a bit of a mean character drunken brawls and seducing innocent woman. Running up bad debts. He wrote mostly of sex and death, Bob Dylan took his name.
Keep well Jenny!
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You've certainly captured the
You've certainly captured the spirit and passion of Thomas in this poem Jenny. And these wonderful lines really seek out the essence of a poet's imagination:
'Was there a boy's childhood wrapped in muddy woods,
with tremulous trees that exploited clear streams of
imagination?'
Very well done!
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Jenny, this is a MASTERPIECE
Jenny, this is a MASTERPIECE. Too wonderful to list every highlight, just needing to read again and again.
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I've not read a lot of Dylan
I've not read a lot of Dylan Thomas, but his words burtst from the page. I guess that's what we all aim for.
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Hi Jenny,
Hi Jenny,
This is lovely, Jenny. You have certainly captured some of the essence of the man. Have you read 'Fern Hill', one of his poems. It's about a wonderful childhood he had in the country when he wasn't in Swansea, where of course he was born in the Mumbles. You have a way with words just like him!!!
hilary
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First-class poem. Jenny. It
First-class poem. Jenny. It is impossible not to be inspired by that genius that was Dylan Thomas, whose essence you have captured so beautifully. Of his works, I adore Under Milk Wood, splendidly recited by Richard Burton and the villanelle Do not go gentle into that Good night. Keep up the good work.
Luigi xx
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Hi Jenny
Hi Jenny
I liked the style you wrote this in, which I presume was how he wrote his poetry. Beautifully done.
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This is such a rich and dense
This is such a rich and dense poem which evokes the man himself. This is one to savour again and again and allow the words to wash over. You should record this and it would be great to hear the cadence of you in this poem.
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Dear Jenny, if I can read my
Dear Jenny, if I can read my poems with an Italian accent and not be embarrassed, I think that a West Country voice is perfectly acceptable. Do join the next ABC reading even if you don't read; it might give you confidence.
All the best, Luigi xx
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Jenny, if it is about
Jenny, if it is about technology, I understand, as I am the same, BUT if it is because of your accent, please think again!
It is a wrong and terrible thing that the south east of england accent might be considered by ANYONE to be the voice of the English Language! That would mean writers only come from the south east, or change their voices? And that isn't true! Where you come from enriches your thoughts and flavours your words, it is a thing to be proud of - Clive James, or Ted Hughes, or Simon Armitage. Shakespeare was from the Midlands :0) Think of all the great writers from Scotland and Ireland, Wales. I have heard so many beautiful readings by writers from otherr countries on the radio, too? It is sad, for me, that Thomas had elocution lessons, that the wings of his words were tied down even as they flew from his mouth. Your images are shaped by the landscape in which you grew up, the words spoken by those around you. Accent is like ore in the rocks under your feet as you walk, and you are ther blacksmith, hammering it into lines of writing? We have got rid of the tyranny of the RP accent and replaced it with the tyranny of the media accent. Be a pionneer! Say your poems with praise for the land where you grew up and the poems with you!
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I knew there was something I
I knew there was something I meant to do today and it was to catch up with this poem. A thorough, complex and carefully woven tribute, so well done. Lots of nice comments on here, all deserved. Paul x
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