TUESDAY MORNING POETRY - DYLAN THOMAS

By Debbie Bulloch



Two recent events brought to mind the immediacy of death. First, last Saturday, I went to the hospital to visit SanPaul’s mom. Her condition has been deteriorating since the beginning of the year. When I entered her room she momentarily did not recognize me – she thought that I was one of the staff on duty. It was only after I launched into my best imitation of “Cuban Spanish” that she eventually recognized me by the sound of my voice. I looked at her and even though she is now a mere shell of her former self, she still hangs on to life with a tenacity that confounds all her doctors. It is almost as if she has some unfinished business to take care of before she finally goes.

Then on Monday morning TT sent me the story about her dying uncle. What touched me the most about her story is how, even though he is sick and frail, her uncle still makes every effort to be there for his family. Again, I am impressed by the strength that some people posses – even as their final hour approaches.

All of the above reminded of a poem by Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas. In his poem, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night” Dylan addressed his dying father. Dylan tells his father that men from all walks of life (wise men, good men, wild men and grave men) have fiercely fought against death’s final approach. At the end of the poem, Dylan asks his father to not walk gently into the shadows of death but, instead, to rage and fight against the “dying of the light.”

One of the biggest regrets in my life is that I was not there for my father at the very end. If I could change the events of my life, being there for him at the end would be on top of my short list.

So for all the mothers, for all the fathers, for all the aunts and uncles, for all the children, and for all the friends who have preceded us in life, here is Dylan’s “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.”


DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

By Dylan Thomas (27 October 1914 – 9, November, 1952)

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.