©2019 by Paul Jenkins Poet. Proudly created with Wix.com

  • pauljenkinspoet

Poem of the week - Dylan Thomas


Pan yn Abertawe gwnewch fel mae'r Cymry yn ei wneud.

Or as they say round here....


When in Swansea do as the Welsh do.


Despite being a Jenkins I’m not in the remotest bit Welsh. We’ve traced my family back about four centuries. All farm labourers, all from the same fifty mile radius on the Essex/Suffolk border. Adventurers we are clearly not.


How exciting then for me to be spending quite so much time in downtown Swansea, working with a cluster of 8 schools on developing their Empathy skills through looking at particular choices of fiction? It’s a year long project and one of the most exciting I’ve ever had the privilege to be invited to work with. This week I’ve been down here talking to some amazing teachers and planning activities for them to use with the kids in the new half term from November.


In the spirit of co-operation and (dare I say it) empathy for a poor weary traveller - one of the kind headteachers has put me up for the last two nights and their hospitality has been simply brilliant. And on the wall of the family home? A piece of poetry...obviously. It couldn’t BE more Welsh being in the form of Dylan Thomas as it is.


So it had to be this week’s poem of the week. Jenny, Darryl, Harry & Anwen - thank you for opening up your home for a lowly teacher/poet on tour. This one’s for you all.


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.

Dylan Thomas



This site was designed with the
.com
website builder. Create your website today.
Start Now