Friday, January 26, 2007

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

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.

by Dylan Thomas


Ink Casualty said...

Thomas was a hack!

candyminx said...

You're incorrigible Inky! Well his stature was not my interest in posting this, you MUG! But I always appreciate you lightening the mood! I think I'll go over to your blog and bug ya.


mister anchovy said...

this poem brought to mind the U.Utah Phillip cowboy tune, the Goodnight Loving Trail...

"Too old to wrangle or ride on the swing,
You beat the triangle and you curse everything.
If dirt was a kingdom, they you'd be the king.

On the Goodnight Trail, on the Loving Trail,
Our Old Woman's lonesome tonight.
Your French harp blows like the low bawling calf.
It's a wonder the wind don't tear off your skin.
Get in there and blow out the light.

With your snake oil and herbs and your liniments, too,
You can do anything that a doctor can do,
Except find a cure for your own god damned stew


The campfire's gone out and the coffee's all gone,
The boys are all up and they're raising the dawn.
You're still sitting there, lost in a song.


I know that some day I'll be just the same,
Wearing an apron instead of a name.
There's nothing can change it, there's no one to blame
For the desert's a book writ in lizards and sage,
Easy to look like an old torn out page,
Faded and cracked with the colors of age."

gardenia said...

Ah, when we look into the last pages - will we insist on reading to the end, or will we rewrite the lines?

my email - bresnan down, is now

Anonymous said...

Loved this poem
thanks for sharing :)

Anonymous said...

It bugs me to see presumed Dylan lovers naively ripping off the whole poem (which is in copyright) thus depriving DT's children of sustenance, rather than just posting a link to Amazon and lettig them finally earn something from their improvident drunk father:

Ink Casualty said...

Anonymous has a small point though I am of the mind encountering a poem in this format may well inspire one to actually go and PURCHASE a collection of Dylan's work which to me seems as probable as one paying for wireless internet. Besides, doesn't the family make enough off of that dreadful Welsh Christmas thingy?

Amy Ruttan said...

Love this poem, especially the last verse.

Red said...

I had never read it in its entirety, but this is truly a great poem. Thanks, Candy.