Yer Tiz

Ok then here’s my first step into the narcissistic world of the blogger.Lets have a bit of Dylan Thomas to kick things off.

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;

Rave, 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 it’s 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.

                                                                               

                                                                               

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3 Responses to “Yer Tiz”

  1. 'doras boy Says:

    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

    (on some stone in some park somewhere or other……)

  2. anacarlo Says:

    it’s a long time hence that i sklieded across the beer slopped floor of old Dora’s, in that lovely ugly town

  3. Mrs Prothero Says:

    ‘Doras me old son, the stone to which you allude is in Cwmdonkin Park (Swansea), Dylans childhood haunt and of Hunchback fame and the climax of Return Journey,

    And i went up through the white grove, into Cwmdonkin Park, the snow still sailing and the childish, lonely, remembered music fingering on in the suddenly gentle wind, Dusk was folding the Park around, like another, darker snow. Soon the bell would ring for the closing of the gates, though the Park was empty. The park-keeper walked by the reservoir, where swans had glided, on his white rounds. I walked by his side and asked him my questions, up the swathed drives past buried beds and loaded utterly still furred and birdless trees towards the last gate. He said:

    “Oh yes,yes I knew him well. he used to climb the reservoir railings and pelt the old swans. Run like a billygoat over the grass you should keep off of. cut branches off trees. Carve words on the benches. Pull up moss in the rockery, go snip through the dahlias. Fight in the bandstand. Climb the elms and moon up the top like an owl. Light fires in the bushes. Play on the green bank. Oh yes, i knew him well. I think he was happy all the time. I’ve known him by the thousands.”

    We had reached the last gate. Dusk drew around us and the town. I said: “What has become of him now?”

    “Dead.”

    The Park-keeper said: (The Park bell rings)

    “Dead…Dead…Dead…Dead…Dead…Dead.”

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