Dylan Thomas Quotes

before you let the sun in, mind he wipes his shoes.

أعلم أننا لسنا قديسون أو عذارى أو مخابيل؛ نحن ندري كل شهوة وكل نكتة من نكات المراحيض, ونعرف أكثرية الناس الوسخين؛ بإمكاننا أن نستقل الحافلات ونعد الفكة ونَعبر الطرق وننطق بجمل حقيقية. بيد أن براءتنا عميقة عمقاً لا حد له, وسرنا المشين هو أننا لا نفقه شيئاً على الإطلاق, أمَّا سرنا الباطني المروع فهو أننا لا نكترث لهذا الجهل

I've had eighteen straight whiskies, I think that's the record . . .

These are but dreaming men. Breathe, and they fade.

This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.

Come on up, boys
-I'm dead.

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.

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.

Me, Polly Garter, under the washing line, giving the breast in the garden to my bonny new baby. Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies. And where's their fathers live, my love? Over the hills and far away. You're looking up at me now. I know what you're thinking, you poor little milky creature. You're thinking, you're no better than you should be, Polly, and that's good enough for me. Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?

After the first death, there is no other.

It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats.

I believe in New Yorkers. Whether they've ever questioned the dream in which they live, I wouldn't know, because I won't ever dare ask that question.

"Love drips & gathers,
but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores..."
-Thomas, The Force that through the green fuse drives the flower.

On No Work of Words

On no work of words now for three lean months in the bloody
Belly of the rich year and the big purse of my body
I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft:

To take to give is all, return what is hungrily given
Puffing the pounds of manna up through the dew to heaven,
The lovely gift of the gab bangs back on a blind shaft.

To lift to leave from the treasures of man is pleasing death
That will rake at last all currencies of the marked breath
And count the taken, forsaken mysteries in a bad dark.

To surrender now is to pay the expensive ogre twice.
Ancient woods of my blood, dash down to the nut of the seas
If I take to burn or return this world which is each man's work.

My birthday began with the water -
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.