Dylan Thomas

Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

Dylan Marlais Thomas (27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953) was a Welsh poet and writer.

Quotes

Light breaks where no sun shines…

Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides…

Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain…

You can tear a poem apart to see what makes it technically tick... You're back with the mystery of having been moved by words.

The joy and function of poetry is, and was, the celebration of man, which is also the celebration of God.

Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
Slides like a sea;
Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears.
- Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines, st. 1 (1934), st. 3

Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics die,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
- Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines, st. 1 (1934), st. 5

The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death.
- "The Hand that Signed the Paper Felled a City", st. 1 (1936)

After the first death, there is no other.
- "A Refusal To Mourn The Death, By Fire, Of A Child In London", st. 4 (1946)

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.
- "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" (1952)

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now, out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
- "A Child's Christmas in Wales", from Quite Early One Morning (1954)

It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine tonight in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.
- "Under Milk Wood" (1954)

I fell in love — that is the only expression I can think of — at once, and am still at the mercy of words, though sometimes now, knowing a little of their behavior very well, I think I can influence them slightly and have even learned to beat them now and then, which they appear to enjoy.
- Poetic Manifesto, published in the Texas Quarterly (Winter 1961)

You can tear a poem apart to see what makes it technically tick... You're back with the mystery of having been moved by words. The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps in the works of the poem so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash, or thunder in. The joy and function of poetry is, and was, the celebration of man, which is also the celebration of God.
- Poetic Manifesto

Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways.

Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means.
- St. 2

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways.
- St. 5

It’s the place where poetry comes to die … That’s me. ~ St. Vincent

It’s the place where poetry comes to die … That’s me.
- Annie Clark, joking about her stage name "St. Vincent", being one she chose from the name of the hospital where Thomas spent his last hours of life, as quoted in "Friendly, and Just a Bit Creepy: St. Vincent Defies Categories" in The New York Times (7 May 2005)

Not only is pot way cooler than alcohol, it’s also non-toxic. Dylan Thomas could not have smoked himself to death.
- Greta Gaines, in rhetoric for an end to Marijuana prohibition laws, in "Why Are No Women Celebrity Stoners Willing to Come Out of the Greenhouse?" (16 August 2012)

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