Happy Monday friends! Welcome to another edition of Monday Travels
So today we are in Wales and we will explore:
POEM IN OCTOBER
POEM IN OCTOBER
Let's meet Dylan Thomas:
Dylan Marlais Thomas (27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953) was a Welsh poet and writer whose works include the poems "Do not go gentle into that good night" and "And death shall have no dominion"; the 'play for voices' Under Milk Wood; and stories and radio broadcasts such as A Child's Christmas in Wales and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog.
He became widely popular in his lifetime and remained so after his premature death at the age of 39 in New York City. By then he had acquired a reputation, which he had encouraged, as a "roistering, drunken and doomed poet".
He became widely popular in his lifetime and remained so after his premature death at the age of 39 in New York City. By then he had acquired a reputation, which he had encouraged, as a "roistering, drunken and doomed poet".
Poem:
It was my
thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and
neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and
rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the
webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set
forth.
My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees
flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived when I took
the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming
with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers
suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and
listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a
snail
With its horns through mist and the
castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the
tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full
cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue
altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a
child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his
mother
Through the parables
Of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his
heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and the
sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth
of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish
in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds.
And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And
the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the
summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with
October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyondany experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/somewhere-i-have-never-travelled-by-ee-cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/somewhere-i-have-never-travelled-by-ee-cummings
Thoughts:any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/somewhere-i-have-never-travelled-by-ee-cummings
And it's finally here! Let's welcome it with a beautiful poem I discovered while simply Googling beautiful images of October!
I hope you will enjoy it as much as I did!
Happy October!
Stay cozy and see you Next Monday!
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