- published: 28 Aug 2013
4 min 30 sec
Dylan Thomas — Lament
Dylan Thomas — Lament
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel f...
published: 28 Aug 2013
Dylan Thomas — Lament
Dylan Thomas — Lament
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
- published: 28 Aug 2013
3 min 17 sec
Dylan Thomas — If I Were Tickled By The Rub Of Love
Dylan Marlais Thomas (1914-1953)
Reading by Dylan Thomas
If I Were Tickled By the Rub of ...
published: 28 Aug 2013
Dylan Thomas — If I Were Tickled By The Rub Of Love
Dylan Marlais Thomas (1914-1953)
Reading by Dylan Thomas
If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love
If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.
Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.
Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the loin
Nor the outspoken grave.
If I were tickled by the lovers' rub
That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts' toes.
This world is half the devil's and my own,
Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.
And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his sex
From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.
And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.
Dylan Thomas
- published: 28 Aug 2013
1 min 44 sec
Richard Burton reads Dylan Thomas - from 'Under Milk Wood': Rev. Eli Jenkins' poem
The Welshman Richard Burton all over!
REV. ELI JENKINS
Dear Gwalia! I know there are
Tow...
published: 28 Aug 2013
Richard Burton reads Dylan Thomas - from 'Under Milk Wood': Rev. Eli Jenkins' poem
The Welshman Richard Burton all over!
REV. ELI JENKINS
Dear Gwalia! I know there are
Towns lovelier than ours,
And fairer hills and loftier far,
And groves more full of flowers,
And boskier woods more blithe with spring
And bright with birds' adorning,
And sweeter bards than I to sing
Their praise this beauteous morning.
By Cader Idris, tempest-torn,
Or Moel yr Wyddfa's glory,
Carnedd Llewelyn beauty born,
Plinlimmon old in story,
By mountains where King Arthur dreams,
By Penmaenmawr defiant,
Llaregyb Hill a molehill seems,
A pygmy to a giant.
By Sawdde, Senny, Dovey, Dee,
Edw, Eden, Aled, all,
Taff and Towy broad and free,
Llyfhant with its waterfall,
Claerwen, Cleddau, Dulais, Daw,
Ely, Gwili, Ogwr, Nedd,
Small is our River Dewi, Lord,
A baby on a rushy bed.
By Carreg Cennen, King of time,
Our Heron Head is only
A bit of stone with seaweed spread
Where gulls come to be lonely.
A tiny dingle is Milk Wood
By Golden Grove 'neath Grongar,
But let me choose and oh! I should
Love all my life and longer
To stroll among our trees and stray
In Goosegog Lane, on Donkey Down,
And hear the Dewi sing all day,
And never, never leave the town.
- published: 28 Aug 2013
1 min 39 sec
Richard Burton reads Dylan Thomas's poem 'The force that through the green fuse drives the flower'.
This upload was made possible thanks to YouTuber HughJason who kindly put this recording a...
published: 28 Aug 2013
Richard Burton reads Dylan Thomas's poem 'The force that through the green fuse drives the flower'.
This upload was made possible thanks to YouTuber HughJason who kindly put this recording at my disposal
- published: 28 Aug 2013
14 min 41 sec
Dylan Thomas: Under Milk Wood - Richard Burton: BBC Play - 1/8
The classic 1963 radio dramatization, with Richard Burton as the narrator, of Dylan Thomas...
published: 28 Aug 2013
Dylan Thomas: Under Milk Wood - Richard Burton: BBC Play - 1/8
The classic 1963 radio dramatization, with Richard Burton as the narrator, of Dylan Thomas's "play for voices". From their dreamy dreams to their work-day gossip, this drama traces the lives of a group of villagers in a tiny Welsh seaport.
Dylan Thomas was born in Swansea on 27 October 1914, the son of a senior English master. On leaving school he worked on the South Wales Evening Post before embarking on his literary career in London. Not only a poet, he wrote short stories, film scripts, features and radio plays, the most famous being Under Milk Wood. On 9 November 1953, shortly after his thirty-ninth birthday, he collapsed and died in New York city. He is buried in Laugharne, Carmarthenshire, which had become his main home since 1949. In 1982 a memorial stone to commemorate him was unveiled in 'Poet's Corner' in Westminster Abbey. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
- published: 28 Aug 2013
1 min 26 sec
"Do not go Gentle into that Good Night" Dylan Thomas
A reading of Dylan's monolithic villanelle on his dying father. It's more about how it ma...
published: 28 Aug 2013
"Do not go Gentle into that Good Night" Dylan Thomas
A reading of Dylan's monolithic villanelle on his dying father. It's more about how it makes you feel than what the words mean.
"Do not go gentle into death's esteemed Vale,
Elderly persons should try to hang on when the body starts to fail;
Though, of course, one day it naturally transpires,
That everyone's membership of the human race expires."
Tim Hopkins imitating William McGonagall imitating Dylan Thomas.
Here's Dylan himself reading it:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377
- published: 28 Aug 2013
4 min 1 sec
Dylan Thomas — Fern Hill
Dylan Thomas — Fern Hill
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lil...
published: 28 Aug 2013
Dylan Thomas — Fern Hill
Dylan Thomas — Fern Hill
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.
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,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
- published: 28 Aug 2013
2 min 31 sec
Anthony Hopkins reads Dylan Thomas
Here, actor Anthony Hopkins reads Dylan Thomas' poem, "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Nig...
published: 28 Aug 2013
Anthony Hopkins reads Dylan Thomas
Here, actor Anthony Hopkins reads Dylan Thomas' poem, "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night." To learn more about "Six Centuries of Verse" or to purchase the DVD, please visit http://www.athenalearning.com
- published: 28 Aug 2013
4 min 6 sec
Dylan Thomas -- Under Milk Wood
Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas.
Comment, rate, subscribe please!
------
To begin at th...
published: 28 Aug 2013
Dylan Thomas -- Under Milk Wood
Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas.
Comment, rate, subscribe please!
------
To begin at the beginning:
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.
Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.
You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing. Only your eyes are unclosed, to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep. And you alone can hear the invisible starfall, the darkest-before-dawn minutely dewgrazed stir of the black, dab-filled sea where the Arethusa, the Curlew and the Skylark, Zanzibar, Rhiannon, the Rover, the Cormorant, and the Star of Wales tilt and ride.
Listen. It is night moving in the streets, the processional salt slow musical wind in Coronation Street and Cockle Row, it is the grass growing on Llareggub Hill, dew fall, star fall, the sleep of birds in Milk Wood.
Listen. It is night in the chill, squat chapel, hymning, in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black, butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats, sucking mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah; night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino; in Ocky Milkman's loft like a mouse with gloves; in Dai Bread's bakery flying like black flour. It is tonight in Donkey Street, trotting silent, with seaweed on its hooves, along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket, harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand, china dog and rosy tin teacaddy. It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.
Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding through the Coronation cherry trees; going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms.
Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
Come closer now.
Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see, in the blinded bedrooms, the combs and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams.
From where you are, you can hear their dreams.
- published: 28 Aug 2013
1 min 38 sec
Dylan Thomas - A Refusal to Mourn
A Refusal To Mourn The Death, By Fire, Of A Child In London by Dylan Thomas, accompanied b...
published: 28 Aug 2013
Dylan Thomas - A Refusal to Mourn
A Refusal To Mourn The Death, By Fire, Of A Child In London by Dylan Thomas, accompanied by some pictures of Thomas and the part of Wales where he grew up
- published: 28 Aug 2013
2 min 1 sec
Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas
This is my first experiment in the Poser program in getting a model to lip synch speech. T...
published: 28 Aug 2013
Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas
This is my first experiment in the Poser program in getting a model to lip synch speech. The sound track is Dylan Thomas himself reading his (part of) his poem "Fern Hill."
I had a whole beautiful video planned out in my head for this with backgrounds illustrating the poem and the speak gradually turning from an old man to a young one, but I realized it would take forever on a single home PC so I put it aside. Maybe I'll finish it someday.
- published: 28 Aug 2013
7 min 34 sec
In Memoriam Dylan Thomas [1954] by Igor Stravinsky (1882-71)
Live performance recorded on December 3, 2007 at Zipper Concert Hall at the Colburn School...
published: 28 Aug 2013
In Memoriam Dylan Thomas [1954] by Igor Stravinsky (1882-71)
Live performance recorded on December 3, 2007 at Zipper Concert Hall at the Colburn School in Los Angeles as part of the Monday Evening Concerts. More information at www.mondayeveningconcerts.org.
Jonathan Mack, tenor
Herbert Ausman, trombone
Ian Carroll, trombone
James Miller, trombone
Russell Moss, trombone
The Calder Quartet:
Benjamin Jacobson, violin
Andrew Bulbrook, violin
Jonathan Moerschel, viola
Eric Byers, cello
William Kraft, conductor
Cameramen: Ross Karre and Jordan Albert
Video Director: Ross Karre
- published: 28 Aug 2013