In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
Dylan Thomas
Ooooooooo!! i LOVE THIS. and i've NEVER read him. how can this be ??
ReplyDeletei'm swooning for lines like:
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms, and this:
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
ohhhhh. how can this BE ?????!!!! i am a poet-illiterate. i want to shred all my poems and start again. i want to be the one to post this poem and bask in the reflection of its glory.
sigh.
oh. and i love your new profile - torturing the little bastard has me wrapped up in giggles. but there is no link to your blog from there to here ...
xxx
beautiful poem and sentiment... the red dirt mule beat me to the punch as far as re-quoting but my fave passage was
ReplyDeleteNot for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
beautiful!
I have loved this poem since the first time I read it 40 years ago. Thanks for the reminder.
ReplyDeleteHey,RDG, to be fair to all concerned, Dylan Thomas didn't always write beauties like this.
ReplyDeleteSome of his pomes are STINKERS compared with this.
Don't you dare shred your pomes! Some of yours are gems, but you, as their creator, can't see them from the outsider's standpoint.
Jim, This poem came to mind as I was writing a reply to your comment on an earlier post, I wrote "I ... just wanted to make pots. If I had the resources, I'd just make pots and leave them by the roadside for people to take or leave, as they wished.", and a vague memory of this poem came, unbidden.
Why do we do it? fame and acclaim? Pardon my mirth... we do it because? because we feel an urge to create, and our reward? "The common wages
Of their most secret heart".
Barbara: Welcome back! Remembered poems are old friends. they warm us, again and again.
I love the circular rhythms of this poem.