Music is part of most celebrations. Here is a beautiful Spanish song inspired by Dylan Thomas’s poem
” Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night”. It has been sung by the Spanish singer Rafa Bocero.
You Tube link :
https://youtu.be/RHgT1w8mm0g
Name of artist : Ruben Molina
Title: Flowers to Dylan Thomas
Medium: Acrylic on canvas
Size: 100cm x 80cm
Year: 2021
Country: Venezuela.
Ruben Molina was Born in Barinitas Edo Barinas, on October 23, 1969. He studied at the Conac Merida Art School from 1980 to 1983. He belongs to the CIRCULO DEL DIBUJO of MACCSI. He taught as professor of Printing Systems at the former Neuman INCE Design Institute. He currently lives and works in Merida Venezuela.
He has been represented as artist by The Ajala Project, Art Foundation in Dubai UAE until 2019. He has had his own solo exhibitions and participated in many group art exhibitions worldwide.
Contact:
rubenmolina7@gmail.com
instagram rubenmolinaart
Name of artist : Gloria Keh
Title: The Crossing
Medium : Mixed media on canvas panel
Size: 14 inches x 18 inches
35 cm x 45 cm
Year : 2021
Country : Singapore
Note: Painted especially for the International Dylan Thomas Day 2021.
Inspired by the poem ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion
Gloria Keh, 69, began painting since childhood. Her father, the oil painter Martin Fu was her first art teacher.
She has taken part in over 80 art exhibitions both in Singapore as well as internationally, and won 18 international art awards.
In 2008, Gloria founded Circles of Love, a non profit charity outreach program using her art in the service of humanity. Since that year, all proceeds from the sales of her artworks are donated 100% to charity
In addition to painting, Gloria writes poetry and facilitates mandala as well as art journaling workshops.
Name of artist: Juliet Preston
Title: ‘Osiris, come to Isis’
Medium: Digital abstract
Size: 1080 x 1080, 1.2 mega pixel
Year : 2021
Country: USA
Note: Inspired by Dylan Thomas’ ‘Osiris, come to Isis’ ,notebook poems
Juliet Preston is an engineer by profession. She considers herself to be a poet at heart and an artist by passion.
Name of artist: Wendy Wong
Title: ‘the Good Night’
Medium: digital art
Size: 2048 px x 2048 px
Year: April 2021
Country: Singapore
Wendy Wong is from Singapore. Since young, Wendy’s interest in art was sparked by her father who brought her out to parks to paint the scenery.
Although she graduated with a Diploma in Graphic Design, she went on to pursue a career in Retail Real Estate for over more than 2 decades and got so busy in the rat race leaving her little time to pursue her passion in the arts area.
Through the years, her love for art never left her.
It is only in the recent years that she picked up her paint and brushes again. Through drawing, it helped her in being more aware of herself and she also used this media to run art expression workshops to help others find their inner child.
It is during 2020 Covid-19 period that Wendy began to paint more seriously, endeavouring to hone her skills and participated in various open call art exhibitions held online.
One of Wendy’s dream is to have her own solo art exhibition one day. She has participated in 10 International Online exhibitions and will soon be part of another upcoming one.
Name of artist : Lidia Chiarelli
Title : How Time has Ticked a Heaven Round the Stars
Medium: Digital collage ( From an original photo by Nora Summers)
Size:45 x 30 cm (pixels)
Year : 2021
Country : Italy
Lidia Chiarelli is from Torino, Italy. She is an installation artist , collagist, writer and co-founder, with Aeronwy Thomas, of the art-literary Movement Immagine & Poesia (2007). Award -winning poet, six nominations to Pushcart Prize, USA and Literary Arts Medal (NY) 2020. Her poems are often translated multilingually.
https://lidiachiarelli.jimdofree.com/
https://lidiachiarelliart.jimdofree.com/
https://immaginepoesia.jimdofree.com/
Name of artist: Gianpiero Actis
Title: Portrait of Dylan Thomas
Medium: Mixed media on canvas board
Size: 40 x30 cm
Year : 2021
Country: Italy
Gianpiero Actis is the co-founder with Aeronwy Thomas ( Dylan Thomas’s daughter) of the art-literary movement “Immagine & Poesia”, and he often offers his artworks as “responses” to poems of different writers.
His artworks are in permanent exhibitions / collections in Italy and abroad (Promotrice delle Belle Arti, Torino /Dylan Thomas Centre, Swansea Wales, /Musée de Huy, Belgium).
Innovation and deep cultural backgrounds are the main features of his artworks.
Celebrating International Dylan Thomas Day 2021
by Vatsala Radhakeesoon
(Editor and Organizer for Vatsalaradwritingworld)
Mauritius
Hello poet friends and literature-lovers!
I’m one of the representatives of Immagine and Poesia (Italy-based literary and artistic movement) founded under the patronage of late Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas.
May 14th marks the anniversary of the first small cast reading of Under Milk Wood on stage at the 92Y in New York ,1953 with Dylan Thomas as the narrator. Thus, 14 May has been assigned as International Dylan Thomas Day.
Upon the approval of the official UK team from Dylan Thomas Trust and on suggestion of the Editor Lidia Chiarelli of Immagine and Poesia, I have the pleasure to organize Dylan Thomas Day on my blog for the second time.
Dylan Thomas was born in Swansea, South Wales on 27 October 1914. His popular poems are “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” and “And Death shall have No Dominion”. Dylan Thomas died in 1953 at the age of 39.
Thomas’s poems are poignant and they have been able to explore and reveal the depth of the subconscious mind.
A few months ago I posted a call for submission for contemporary poets to send their own original poems as a tribute to Dylan Thomas. I’m really glad to have received submissions from international poets of our time and I have the greatest pleasure to publish them on this blog today. This year, I have arranged the poets’ works by keeping a balance between simple and complex ones.
I express my sincere gratitude to all talented poets who have sent their well -crafted works. Many thanks to Hannah Ellis( granddaughter of Dylan Thomas), Andrew Dally, David Evans and Lidia Chiarelli for their support, encouragement and help in organizing this event on my blog.
Hope you will enjoy reading the following poems and continue to support Dylan Thomas’s works.
POEMS
Myth
by Michael R. Burch
after the sprung rhythm of Dylan Thomas
Here the recalcitrant wind
sighs with grievance and remorse
over fields of wayward gorse
and thistle-throttled lanes.
And she is the myth of the scythed wheat
hewn and sighing, complete,
waiting, lain in a low sheaf—
full of faith, full of grief.
Here the immaculate dawn
requires belief of the leafed earth
and she is the myth of the mown grain—
golden and humble in all its weary worth.
Author’s Note :
I believe I wrote the first version of this poem towards the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18 in late 1976. To my recollection, this is my only poem directly influenced by the “sprung rhythm” of Dylan Thomas (more so than that of Gerard Manley Hopkins). But I was not happy with the fourth line and put the poem aside for more than 20 years, until 1998, when I revised it. I was still not happy with the fourth line, so I put it aside and revised it again in 2020, nearly half a century after originally writing the poem.
Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into fourteen languages, and set to music by twelve composers.
WORM’S HEAD, RHOSSILI
by Rhys Hughes
Dylan
on the tiny hill
at the end of the causeway,
stranded by high tide and waiting
for it to recede again so he might escape
back to normality. But there’s no
normality in the whole land,
only the devilish
night
&
those
gusts of icy wind
that bite the exposed flesh
of wrists and throat that poke out
of cardigan warmth. Next time he’ll check
the tide times and plan a crossing
with more care, he’ll boast
appropriately and
laugh
a
brisk
laugh that’s more
like a dragon’s bite in the
way it sounds, a legendary snarl,
but now his knees are drawn up and fears
gnaw gently on his spirit’s bones,
a man alone, far from home,
musing on a stone,
skull.
Rhys Hughes is the author of many books, short stories, articles, plays and poems. He graduated in Engineering but now works as a tutor of Mathematics. His most recent book is the novel “The Pilgrim’s Regress”, a fabulist comedy set in Old Spain.
A Scaffold
by Michael Bishop
The first thirteen planks of A Refusal
to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child
in London constitute a single down-
dropping sentence, like a noose leaping up
short of the majesty and burning of
its subject’s extinction beneath the gallows
of Dylan’s opening two stanzas and the first
plank of its third. In this fatal suspension
he abjures any recourse to commas or
hyphens. As if loops and pointed sticks appall
his sense of the aborted innocent’s
existence. As if compound descriptives like
mankind making and Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling set before
darkness to radiate it with no punctuation
whatsoever could reunify the ruins
inflicted on a bolt-stung city’s hapless
casualties, whether man woman or bairn,
even if his titular slain urchin London’s
daughter was the freest of any injury
infliction of that lot during those nightly
Nazi blitzkriegs. I shall not murder, Thomas
tells us in the second load-bearing sentence
of his scaffold, The mankind of her going—
although had she lived to adulthood she
might have preferred humanity as a species
specifier amidst her shrouded long friends
and frank blasphemy to her eulogist’s
self-flattering discretion in declining
to smutch with further Elegy the dignity
of her annihilation by adopting
in another plank of his platform the grief-
gainsaying timelessness of the unmourning
water Of the riding Thames. Then nails a
twenty-fourth timber to the full shebang:
After the first death comma there is no other.
Whoa. Is that filigreed blather or an oaken
spear of warm sagacity?
It’s just Dylan, friends,
a stick of Easter dynamite to pipe our unspeakable
grief.
Michael Bishop’s novels include No Enemy but Time (1982), winner of a Nebula Award, Unicorn Mountain (1988; revised 2020), winner of the Mythopoeic Fantasy Award, and Brittle Innings (1994), winner of a Locus Award for Best Fantasy Novel. He has also published reviews and essays as well as story collections, notably Other Arms Reach Out to Me: Georgia Stories (2017), winner of a Georgia Author of the Year Award in 2018. Later this year, Fairwood Press will publish a retrospective gathering of his short fiction (stories no longer than 3,000 words) and several brief poems with narrative elements, A Few Last Words for the Late Immortals (2021). Years and years ago, Bishop wrote his Master’s thesis at the University of Georgia on the poetry of Dylan Thomas. More recently, on November 5, 2018, he was inducted into the Georgia Writers Hall of Fame.
To Dylan Thomas
by Mitali Chakravarty
He said Death shall have no dominion.
Bones dissolve into sun, moon and stars.
Death shall have no dominion.
Yet the flowers wither with grief
As smoke curls from a pyre
While the man crumbles to ashes
And dust. The sun, moon and stars
Gather the smoke with the soul,
Pinning it to the sky with a styrofoam clip.
Another star is born. Life and Death.
Grief is Incongruent. And yet he said,
Death shall have no dominion.
Hades smiles as Hiroshima blasts.
The Earth weeps tears of atomic wastes.
Hibakushas* mourn their lost. Does now
Death have a dominion?
*Atomic bomb survivors with the kimono imprints on their bodies.
Author’s Note: A tribute to a great Welsh writer who continues to inspire and make us think. These lines are inspired by Dylan Thomas’s poem ‘Death shall have no Dominion’.
Mitali Chakravarty is writer and the editor of Borderless Journal. She has been published widely in journals and anthologies. She writes and translates for harmony, humanity and kindness and looks forward to a world beyond all borders
The Man from Swansea
by Chris Hemingway
Dashing as a Welsh
Young man should
Look, by your charming nature
And sense of adventure, there is
No doubt
That the world remembers you as
Humble, daring, and full
Of life. You lived by your own rules and your
Memories live inside
All of us
Secretly
Chris Hemingway is a librarian from East Haven, Connecticut, United States. He is the author of
The Day the Bull Lived And Other Poems.
The Word Lover
by Gloria Keh
The other night,
we drank
in love
as we undressed
the words of our desires.
Our secret meetings
would soon come to an end.
For again, he would leave
returning across rolling waves
to his wife,
his home,
his land.
We fell in lust
one cold grey evening
in the dark depths of winter.
A season of heated passion
so wild and free.
Naked, entwined
night after night
before the fierce flames
of a glorious fire.
Only to end
each time
in torment
in tears
in anguish
in discontent.
He carressed my body
but mostly engulfed my mind.
I rushed into his web
seduced by his stanzas
a slave to his words.
Our days became nights
Our nights melted into eternity.
And then one day
as leaves turned red
falling onto the earth
in burnt golds and browns;
when the chilly winds of autumn blew
without mercy nor respect,
from the cold sea
singing to a sad melody,
he was no more.
I watched from a distance
as they moved his body.
That body I craved
That body I worshipped
That body that was the heart of me.
Today, so many talk on and on
about his genius.
About his love affair with words.
Oh yes, I still remember
how he had that incredible way
with words.
But that was nothing like the way
he had with me.
Born in Singapore, Gloria Keh, 69, has been writing for decades. Having spent most of her adult life working as a travel journalist, then as an editor and finally as an editorial consultant for Singapore’s airport magazine.
Gloria also worked as a copywriter with one of Singapore’s top advertising agencies, writing brochures for the Singapore Tourist Promotion Board and Singapore Airlines. In addition, she was the South East Asian correspondent for several international travel trade magazines.
Three of her self-illustrated travelogues won the prestigious PATA American travel writers award for three consecutive years.
Also an artist, Gloria enjoys writing poetry that’s accompanied by her art. She conducts art journaling.
A Quintessential Star
by Juliet Preston
A quintessential star
comes only once in a million years.
Born a scorpio sign,
a life resembled exactly the scorpion constellation in the night sky.
Dylan Thomas, a notoriety shaped by distinct brilliance.
A legend exhibited by
his magnificent genius,
A drunkard tormented by
his shadow self.
Had fate placed him in a wrong place at a wrong time,
or fortune did not favor the Welsh’s famous son?
So many questions without answers.
Pain may have been inescapable,
but love was always plenty.
Love found its way in his
‘Osiris, come to Isis’,
‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion’
spoke of his rebellious soul even in the face of death.
‘The Map of Love’ granted
a poetic licence for his adolescent indulgence,
marking the culmination
of rage echoed in
‘Do not go gentle into that good night’.
O darling Dylan Thomas,
your magnificence and apocalypse glow every time
when the scorpion displays in the starry sky.
Juliet Preston is an engineer by profession. She considers herself to be a poet at heart and an artist by passion.
Really It is My Own Stupidity
by Robin Wyatt Dunn
Really it is my own stupidity
Education a kind of paring down
An endless series of beatings
Sparta made crueler and more enduring
Their double kings
Made quadruple or quintuple
Arcane bollocks collapsing onto my chest
The lesson that I am unable to learn
The test unending
year and year
minute by minute
slapping you across the face
“You haven’t learned yet!”
The lore is so deep
And I am unable to dive
I drink only from its edges
It will kill me
Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his
works at www.robindunn.com.
Polar Unity
by Heath Brougher
We fingered the hives for honey to boil.
It was summer after all and, despite the frost,
and because the sleeping man
said she would ring the stars,
the tottering seasons have turned womb-warm
and painted our faces with mustardseed sunlight.
We fall awake from eunuch dreams
to deliberately contradict ourselves
with the every sentence we utter
in the blood drop’s garden of portraits
of the artist as a young God—
the same place the straw man was ripped
into a dozen maggot-barren wreaths.
We know well this red-eyed earth
will eventually allow a punctual
dying of the light and we will, once again,
rose-red fall back into our unhouses in the ground.
Author’s Note:
An ode to Dylan Thomas using images from his poems to make a statement on the contradiction often found within his work.
Heath Brougher is the Editor in Chief of Concrete Mist Press as well as poetry editor for Into the Void Magazine. His work has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Award and he was the recipient of Taj Mahal Review’s 2018 Poet of the Year Award. He was recently awarded the 2020 Wakefield Prize. His works can be found in both print and online journals across the world.
Red Bay of Bengal, west of Java, north of Madras
By Sekhar Banerjee
I
If I dismantle this red evening over Pondicherry
and Madras bit by bit,
it is an old oil painting, its frame was gilded
by the last European carpenters off Coromandel coast
and if I break up its deep red space, step by step,
of red air, red bougainvillea, red trees, red people, red salt beds,
red balustrades just in front of the promenade
and Bay of Bengal, also red,
where the Java-bound ships and their merchants went beyond
their call of duty – now all lost red ships are still floating
in the red Bay of Bengal, west of Java, north of Madras,
and every lost drummer, sad like us, drums up
enough red from their parchment drums,
and the whole of south India,
mystified and upset, finally knows the sun has gone down
to return again
We now know nobody can ever touch his own edge
of all things, past and present
and that, nothing can be shared except our own fallacies
at a later stage
II
It is the limit of the red sky that our eyes can behold,
frame by frame,
devoid of any nuts, screws and bolts and shame
when the sea froths are crimson;
Earth’s blood (group unknown) is splattered on the sky,
sea and on the clouds nearby
Without a definition
of the evening as evening, without a definition of time
as time, without a definition of sea and the sky without a frame,
here the evening is dying without
an obituary and a good name; the (hooded) night, yes,
as if an authorized agent of change, has murdered it again
without any provocation
I know somewhere down the road,
there must be an official witness’ box
and an ancient observer’s bench,(a tourists’ kiosk
in most cases) to attend to this daily ritual of death
Author’s Note: This poem has been written in appreciation of Dylan Thomas’s works on death and, subsequently, on life.
Sekhar Banerjee is an author. He has four poetry collections and a monograph on an Indo-Nepal border tribe to his credit. His works have been published in Indian Literature, The Bitter Oleander, Ink Sweat and Tears, Kitaab and elsewhere. He lives in Kolkata, India.
Seize the Night
by John Thieme
I hear the rasping cries of lovers
through my sullen wall of doubt.
I hear their midnight moans of ardour.
I take a draught to drown them out.
I yearn to capture them in quatrains,
that sidle passion into verse,
but I’m a frozen attic statue,
garroted by their rampant curse.
And so they move forever forwards,
unheeding all my moonshine arts.
Intoxicated by dull thoughts of hemlock,
I try once more to snare their hearts.
John Thieme is a Senior Fellow at the University of East Anglia, UK. He previously held Chairs at the University of Hull and London South Bank University and has also taught at the Universities of Guyana and North London, and as a Visiting Professor at the Universities of Turin, Hong Kong and Lecce. His academic books include Postcolonial Con-Texts: Writing Back to the Canon, Postcolonial Literary Geographies: Out of Place, The Arnold Anthology of Post-Colonial Literatures in English, and studies of Derek Walcott, V.S. Naipaul and R.K. Narayan. He is currently working on a study of climate change fiction and hopes to write a cli-fi novel himself. His creative writing has been published in Argentina, Canada, Hong Kong, India, Italy, Malaysia, Mauritius, the Netherlands, the UK and the USA, and his collection Paco’s Atlas and Other Poems was published by Setu Press (Pittsburgh) in 2018.
Blazing Star
by Nell Jones
Dark days, few reminisces,
My burning skin,
the world is in your light.
Valiant sun, touch the grainy sky,
Wrap me in your cloak,
Raise up your voice,
In this cathedral, of blazing star shine,
Breathe softly in my ear of,
How you found me here.
I count the stars,
Smooth your skin,
My sky is your sky,
My hand, is your hand and the
Scars I have scraped roughly on your jaw, weaken,
For night has come so elegantly.
This is our final congregation,
On the eve of the fated choir,
The wretched night will steal my confession.
Flame the burning skin,
Let your breath pass over me,
Wither the deceitful warmth,
Beguile in its glow.
Black foe,
Your hills are a woman’s body,
A faded figure that appears,
Lying perfectly, on the darkened landscape.
Disguised on the horizon,
A force drives me towards you and so,
I count the stars on your back,
Each one glowing as you sleep.
Under this heavenly cathedral,
I retreat into the new and misty down,
I fall below your feet,
On this dusk’s long day,
Concealed by the vapour of the Milky Way.
You are still young, like the day,
In harmony with the rushing morning,
I drink my wine, sipping on,
The intoxicating freedom while,
You cheat with the lights turned on.
The breakfasts on the tray,
I kneel upon the alter, to listen for
The warble of the curlew and the welcome of the crow,
The magpies rippling white wings,
That burst through the misty brew,
And settle on the fever of dotted colours,
on the morning dew.
An undertaker calling to his mate,
The quickening quiet,
On the heavy hue,
Drops of rain touch my words,
To tell you,
I was here in this black dark day.
Nell Jones (Daniella) was born in Adelaide in 1964. She has Dutch and Welsh heritage. Writing since the age of 12, Nell had her first play, Dead Man’s Alley, a work focused on the plight of homeless men living on the streets of Melbourne, performed at the Nimrod Theatre, Sydney, a second play, The Blind Forty, set on the Torrens River during the Depression in Adelaide, performed at the Seymour Centre, Sydney. She has been the recipient of a Master Writers Grant, from the Australia Council and has written several other plays for youth theatres and schools, as part of her role as a drama teacher and director in those organisations. Nell has published many works over the years, including Jack and Lily, a chronicle of short war stories and poetry. Nell’s first novel, The Lost Sister of Groningen, based on the life of her mother in WW2 and 1950’s Australia, was launched at the Tap Gallery in Sydney in 2010. It was later launched at the Ubud Readers and Writers Festival in 2011. Her second novel, A Token for Perry was launched by Libby Hathorn in Sydney at the 371 Gallery Marrickville. Her poetry volume, The Sky Is My Religion was also launched in Ubud Reader’s and Writer’s Festival in 2012 and with the support of the UWRF, was opened by Australian writer Libby Hathorn. Nell performed her poetry daily with Balinese musicians and dancers in an art space in Ubud, with paintings that were specially created to reflect her poetry volume. At the opening she performed with Balinese dancers and a 30-piece orchestra as part of the Ubud Readers and Writers Festival celebrations. Nell has two degrees in education, and is currently working on her third novel, Patience Perry. Nell lives by the sea in Newcastle, Australia and in 2021 has retired from teaching and is a full-time writer. She is concurrently writing a play, The Voice of the People.
Please go to her website to find out more:
Literary Legend of Wales
by Margaret O’ Driscoll
I stood outside Dylan’s childhood home
his words emanated from within
I sat in peaceful Cymdonkin Park
pictured him playing there as a child
I strolled along Swansea’s streets
saw haunts he liked to frequent
On his beloved sweeping Swansea Bay
Cockle pickers scanned the sands
Out at Mumbles where he spent happy hours
I watched laver gatherers on the rocks
At West Glamorgan’s green farmland
seeds of Fern Hill were sown
Legend of Wales although gone too soon
His literary legacy is evergreen.
Margaret O’Driscoll lives in West Cork; Ireland. Her poetry and nature photography have been widely published internationally. Selections of her poems have been translated into many different languages.
Excerpts from Dylan Thomas’s Obscurity: The Legitimacy of Explication
by Michael Bishop
Dylan Thomas’ Obscurity: The Legitimacy of Explication. A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the University of Georgia. Athens, Georgia: 1968. Excerpts from pages 3-6 of Chapter One, “The Problem of Obscurity”:
From the beginning the adverse criticism directed at [Dylan] Thomas centered on his readily apprehended obsession with the sound of words, singly and in combination. The criticism largely ignored or misunderstood the structuring principle behind the arrangement of the curious words and propulsive rhythms. The decree came down that the young poet’s obscurity was the result either of Neanderthal inarticulateness or cunning charlatanism. One or the other had to be true. Dylan Thomas could not communicate except in staccato grunts and fluent moans; or else he employed a freak brand of verbal pyrotechnics to flash-blind the reader to his shallow-mindedness. On these grounds one critic, Julian Symons, declared Thomas’ poems ‘jokes, rhetorical, intellectual fakes of the highest class’ (“Obscurity and Dylan Thomas,’ Kenyon Review, II, Winter 1940, p. 67). This kind of misunderstanding and even crass dismissal plagued Thomas throughout his career; it has continued to plague his reputation since his death in November of 1953 . . .
The most extensively argued condemnation of Dylan Thomas’ poetic method to date, however, is David Holbrook’s book Llareggub Revisited. Holbrook argues that the poetry of Thomas is indicative of an attitude inimical to the civilized consciousness. He says that [its] disconcerting power over the reader lies not in its intellectual content but rather in the invocation of hwyl, that state of raptured abandon into which a Welsh preacher works himself and his congregation (Llareggub Revisited: Dylan Thomas and the State of Modern Poetry, London, 1962, p. 87, footnote). The poetry is obscure, Holbrook intimates, because Thomas was capable of writing only a “babble-language” that necessarily subordinated meaning to hollow sound effects. Even in such a poem as “A Refusal to Mourn” Holbrook sees only empty sentiment and overblown sound. He dismisses the calculated ambiguity of the last line with two purposely belittling paraphrases: “The last verse is really general and empty, a disguise of feeling in hwyl, the profound-sounding last line, After the first death, there is no other, meaning surely no more than When you’re dead you don’t die again or When you’re dead you are done for” (ibid., p. 171).
These almost flippant paraphrases of the last line reduce its meaning to the deflated colloquial level that Holbrook seeks for the purposes of his argument. But the paraphrases exclude the connotations of Christian salvation that Thomas’ line forcibly imparts. The profundity of the line lies in the fact that Thomas deliberately works both sides of its meaning: (1) Death is birth into immortality, and (2) Death is the end of all sentience. Furthermore, the line has a meaning within its immediate context that Holbrook altogether fails to see: The initial death in war is the symbolic act that contains all subsequent deaths. The last line of ‘A Refusal to Mourn,’ then, is not so much an example of obfuscation in hwyl as a careful exploitation of a loaded ambiguity. Thomas refuses to mourn, but he does not fail to offer consolation or to indict the stupidity and arrogance of war. Combined in the poem are both an intellectual tough-mindedness and an understandable emotional reaction to the fire-bombings of London.
Vatsala Radhakeesoon: Rhys Hughes, welcome to Vatsalaradwritingworld blog! Today we are celebrating International Dylan Thomas Day and since you are a contemporary writer, originally from Wales we wish to learn more about Dylan Thomas and your appreciation of his works. So, firstly, please tell us briefly about yourself and how you can relate yourself to the works of the famous Welsh poet Dylan Thomas?
Rhys Hughes: I was born in Wales and although I have lived in many countries, I am acutely aware of the fact I am Welsh. There is a photograph of me standing under a Welsh flag in a remote region of West Africa. No one knew why that flag was flying on its pole, not even the person who raised it, nor did they know it was a Welsh flag. But it pleased me to see it there, an unexpected symbol of my homeland. And Dylan Thomas is another Welsh symbol that crops up in unlikely places, a symbol just as essential and potent as the flag, dragons, daffodils and leeks. Culturally he is adjacent to the soul of every modern Welsh writer. He is also adjacent to me physically, in some sense, for at the moment I live within a five-minute walk of the house where he was born and grew up. When I was younger, I tried to turn my back on him, an ultimately futile endeavour. We had to study his work at school and I wanted to resist. The time and place were both wrong. My appreciation of Dylan Thomas has grown substantially since then. It has grown to the point where it is now outside the page and beyond the written word. For example, when I am crossing the causeway of Worm’s Head, an impressive geological feature in Gower, west of Swansea, I think about him stranded on the highest point of the rocks for a whole cold night because he misjudged the tide. The echo of his life is still clear.
V.R: What is the actual place of Dylan Thomas’s works in the field of Welsh/ English Literature?
R.H: He is at the very summit of Welsh literature. It is difficult to overstate his importance in Wales. Of course, there have been many fine poets and writers in Welsh history who wrote only in Welsh and they tend to have received less attention internationally. This is only to be expected. My favourite Welsh novel is Un Nos Ola Leuad by Caradog Prichard and it deserves to be better known, but writers who write in English will always have the advantage of increased visibility. Dylan Thomas wrote in English but much of his sensibility is Welsh. Some people have said he was almost a caricature of a Welshman in his behaviour and lifestyle but I don’t think that is entirely fair. Welsh identity was under an enormous amount of pressure at the time and he helped to reaffirm it far and wide and so preserve it for the future. He is as important to Wales in that respect as Yeats is to Ireland or Burns to Scotland. He is a national poet but his work is never narrow or nationalistic. It remains universal in its ability to resonate with a global audience. Yet it is still somehow essentially Welsh. That is no small achievement. As for his importance in English literature as a whole, he is regarded as one of the very best poets of the 20th century. In fact he is regarded as one of the best modern poets in any language.
V.R: How do you celebrate Dylan Thomas Day in your city and tell us about any special literary memory or experience related to this?
R.H: I have missed the day over the past few years, mainly because I wasn’t in Wales at the time, and I am never sure how I will celebrate the occasion. I sometimes find some small way to do so. In the past I visited the Boathouse in Laugharne where he lived but that particular visit was part of a general celebration of his life and work rather than being an event connected with a specific day. I once won a set of volumes of his Collected Letters in a poetry slam competition at the Dylan Thomas Centre in Swansea but again I don’t think that competition had anything to do with his official Day. My girlfriend is a translator (among other things) and has translated his poem ‘Do Not Go Gentle’ into the language of Karnataka and I want to play her recording of that translation outside his house to celebrate. But I don’t have to do that on any particular day. It might be raining. I will probably do it when it is sunny. In Wales the weather is extremely unreliable and that makes it difficult to plan outdoor events. Another hike to Rhossili in Gower might be another option. Only once have I walked the full distance between Rhossili and Swansea in one day. It took eleven hours and was a tough walk. But it’s an extremely beautiful part of the world and I never tire of the scenery.
V.R: What is your favourite work of Dylan Thomas?
R.H: I am one of those rare readers who prefer his short stories to his poems. His poetry is magnificent, yes of course, deeply lyrical and powerful, but there is a crispness and a humour to his short stories that I find very appealing. His book of semi-autobiographical tales, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog, is my favourite of his books, the one I would take with me to a desert island. And the opening story of that collection, ‘The Peaches’, is for me perhaps the best in the volume. I can read such a book and see his influence on many authors who came later. It might seem strange that he was an influence on science fiction writers too, but that is certainly the case. Ray Bradbury, Roger Zelazny, Michael Bishop, to name just three, owe at least some of the lyricism of their prose to an appreciation of Dylan Thomas. They wanted to raise the quality of the genre they worked in and they succeeded. Dylan’s short stories crackle and fizz very pleasingly. Mention must be made of Under Milk Wood too, of course, certainly one of the best radio plays ever written, but if pushed to choose only one work I would still opt for that slim collection of stories.
V.R: In the Welsh context what is the most striking feature of Dylan Thomas’s poetry?
R. H: The most striking aspect of his poetry is its universal application. Welsh literature has a tendency to be a little too parochial in its themes, structures and intentions. It has sometimes seemed to me that writers on the edge of Welsh identity have written more valuable works than those plunged headlong into it. But maybe that’s going too far. All the same, Dylan’s poetry is Welsh, profoundly so, but not just Welsh. We can say with equal emphasis that he was a Welsh writer, a European writer and a World writer. This is important. This is refreshing. Wales, the smallest of the Celtic nations, has struggled to keep up with its larger cousins. Ireland has Joyce, Beckett, Yeats, Flann O’Brien and many others. Scotland has Burns, Robert Louis Stevenson, Alasdair Gray and many others. But without Dylan Thomas, Wales would have no one of comparable stature. It’s true that I have already mentioned that there are neglected writers in Wales who deserve more attention, but the fact remains that Dylan is our touchstone, our great symbol, our champion. He has an inestimable value for that service alone. His works resonates. It’s as simple as that. It resonates beyond any narrow category or confine. It is true and pure literature in the best sense.
V.R: Please can you share with us any of your poems or prose works written for this special event?
R.H: The vast majority of my poetry is light verse, either humorous lyrics inspired by Edward Lear, Don Marquis, Ogden Nash, or else very short offbeat pieces influenced by Richard Brautigan. Very little is serious. But I decided to try to write one of my occasional serious poems as a tribute to Dylan. It is based on his adventure on Worm’s Head. ‘Worm’ here means ‘dragon’ and is an archaic word. The geological formation looks rather like a dragon.
WORM’S HEAD, RHOSSILI
Dylan
on the tiny hill
at the end of the causeway,
stranded by high tide and waiting
for it to recede again so he might escape
back to normality. But there’s no
normality in the whole land,
only the devilish
night
&
those
gusts of icy wind
that bite the exposed flesh
of wrists and throat that poke out
of cardigan warmth. Next time he’ll check
the tide times and plan a crossing
with more care, he’ll boast
appropriately and
laugh
a
brisk
laugh that’s more
like a dragon’s bite in the
way it sounds, a legendary snarl,
but now his knees are drawn up and fears
gnaw gently on his spirit’s bones,
a man alone, far from home,
musing on a stone
skull.
V. R: Thank you very much Rhys Hughes.
Rhys Hughes
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated every year on 14 May.
As a representative of Immagine and Poesia (founded by the patronage of Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Dylan Thomas) and upon the approval of the Dylan Thomas Trust , I am conducting International Dylan Thomas Day 2021 online.
I invite all poets interested to submit one poem about the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas or appreciation of his works to:
vatsfrankness@gmail.com
Only poems with proper imagery in context and having a refined poetic language will be accepted.
Any poem consisting of unrefined/coarse/obscene language or imagery will be rejected.
If your work is accepted, you will receive an acceptance e-mail within 1 week of your submission. If you do not hear from me within 1 week, it means your work hasn’t been accepted this time.
Deadline: 5 April 2021
All accepted poems will be published on my blog:
vatsalaradwritingworld.home.blog
Together as poets, let’s uplift the power of poetic words and maintain the true mission of Poetry!
Looking forward to receiving your poems.
Thank you!
Vatsala Radhakeesoon
Poet/Translator
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated every year on 14 May.
This year Mauritian author/poet and artist, Vatsala Radhakeesoon will be conducting an interview with a contemporary Welsh writer regarding Dylan Thomas’s works and life. She will also be publishing poems , artworks and song links about Dylan Thomas created by poets, artists or singers worldwide.
Details of the event include:
1.Interview with contemporary Welsh author/poet , Rhys Hughes.
2. Submission call for poems, artworks and song links about Dylan Thomas and appreciation for his works.
Poets, artists and singers from all over the world may submit their works to Vatsala Radhakeesoon to : vatsfrankness@gmail.com
Deadline: 29 April 2021.
The interview , poems and other creative works will be published on the following blog:
vatsalaradwritingworld.home.blog.
Kind regards,
Editors/Administrators
vatsalaradwritingworld.home.blog
Poems by Linda Imbler
French Translation by Vatsala Radhakeesoon
The Lateness of the Hour
Had I known then what lore to seek as a child,
I would have learned this so much earlier,
Let all comprehension be reconciled,
And apply all of it throughout my life.
I’d spend less time being a worrier,
Make my base of knowledge sturdier.
And not limit my thoughts as I went along.
We search to find those who understand us,
When we should seek insight into other things.
Never think of data as superfluous,
Enjoy those sensations that deep thought brings,
If my legacy’s told at a later time,
I hope to have taken my own advice.
L’heure tardive
Si j’avais su quelles traditions à suivre durant mon enfance,
J’aurais appris cela plus tôt dans ma vie,
Laissant harmoniser toute compréhension,
Et tout mettre en pratique durant ma vie.
Je perdrais moins de temps à m’inquiéter,
en approfondissant ma connaissance.
Et ne pas limiter mes propres pensées.
On cherche des gens qui nous comprennent,
au lieu d’avoir un meilleur aperçu d’autres choses.
Ne considérez jamais les données comme superflues,
Réjouissez des émois naissant des pensées profondes,
Si mon héritage est révélé plus tard,
J’espère d’avoir suivi mes propres conseils.
What Burns with Meaning
The lace of stars strung like constellations
hangs as books on a shelf, lit to best effect.
Past, present, and future astral tales
written in accordance with the dreams of man.
Trust the literary merit of
the dangling flares.
It’s hard to be sure
the twine of the scroll will stay unfading.
Celebrate the numbered hours, before the stars fly
away forever. Appreciate those
bright spots that burn with meaning.
Count each syllable as a worship.
Seek the breath of those who live upon the skies
as collected thoughts.
Ce qui brûle de sens
Un groupe d’étoiles défilant comme des constellations
se suspendent comme des livres sur une étagère, éclairant le tout.
Les récits (textes) astraux classiques, contemporains et à venir
écrits d’après les rêves des humains.
Croyez au valeur littéraire
balançant des signaux lumineux.
C’est difficile d’assurer
que la ficelle du parchemin restera impérissable.
Célébrez les heures avant que les étoiles s’envolent
pour toujours. Valorisez ces
points puissants brûlant de sens.
Comptez chaque syllabe comme une liturgie.
Cherchez le souffle de ceux qui vivent dans les cieux
comme des réflexions collectives.
Voices Of The Caves (A Shardoma )
My torch lights
ablaze cave paintings
I found in
France. Bright hues
as reminders of
spring bursting with song.
I also found
paintings in Spain,
singing out
from stone walls
patterned with vibrant swirls of
that cave’s mighty voice.
La Voix des caves
Ma torche illumine
les peintures rupestres
que j’ai trouvé en
France. Couleurs vives
comme les souvenirs
du printemps rayonnant de chants.
J’ai aussi
trouvé des tableaux en Espagne,
chantant
des murs de pierre
entourés de tourbillons vibrants de
la voix puissante de cette cave.
I Have Come To Know Things
The final frontier of my heart, coming closer.
The nameless thirst for life felt here.
No stars can die in this holy place.
It may seem as if I run alone,
my skin hot, but my bones starting to feel the cold,
but providence is commanding my eventual end,
and I have come to know things.
The last war, they say
will last one thousand years,
and I dream that if it happens in my lifetime,
you will summon all the angels,
and I will feel, each night,
your army closing around me
in order to protect.
J’ai appris des choses
La dernière limite de mon cœur s’approche.
La soif inconnue de la vie est ressenti ici.
Aucune étoile ne peut mourir dans ce lieu sacré.
Il me semble que je cours toute seule,
ma peau toute brûlante, mais mes os ressentant le froid,
mais Dieu ordonne ma fin,
et j’ai appris des choses.
La dernière guerre, disent-ils
durera mille ans,
et je rêve si cela se produit durant ma vie,
tu rassembleras tous les anges,
et je ressentirai chaque nuit,
ton armée s’approchant tout autour de moi
pour me protéger.
Poem by Linda Imbler
Mauritian Kreol translation by Vatsala Radhakeesoon
Crystal Ships
The sea splatters its foam
like pearls for which divers dive.
Salt that could rust ships
gives life, under the waters blue.
Living creatures act as fathomable archangels
above the bones of crystal ships.
And all are protected by God.
Bato Kristal
Lamer zet so lekim
kouman perl seki bann plonzer rode.
Disel ki kapav rouy bann bato
donn lavi, ofon lamer (dilo ble).
Bann kreatir vivan azir kouma bann arkanz normal
lor tou parti ki zwenn bann bato kristal.
Ek zot tou proteze par Bondie.
Poems by Christine Tabaka
Translated by Vatsala Radhakeesoon
It Was Wednesday
It was Wednesday.
Winds were calm.
Sun peeked through branches
as it climbed the sky.
Windows open to sweet air
and bird songs
Promises were made
New life emerged from soft earth.
It was Thursday.
Darkness covered all.
Sad sighs emerged from within.
Everything was upside down.
Doors locked to fear.
Prayers flowed.
Hearts sought solace.
How quickly everything changed.
It was Friday,
Saturday,
then Sunday …
A little bird landed on my feeder.
Flowers opened to face the sun.
A glimmer of hope shone.
And people walked outside once more.
C’était mercredi
C’était mercredi.
Le vent était calme.
Le soleil regardait par les branches
lorsqu’il se levait dans le ciel.
Les fenêtres laissaient entrer l’air frais
et les chants d’oiseaux.
Des promesses ont été faites.
Une nouvelle vie surgit de la terre toute douce.
C’était jeudi.
L’obscurité envahissait partout.
De tristes soupirs émergeaient tout au fond du cœur.
Tout était à l’envers.
Des portes fermées de frayeur.
Des prières s’inondaient.
Des cœurs cherchaient le réconfort.
Comme subitement tout avait changé !
C’était vendredi,
samedi,
puis dimanche…
Un oisillon s’était posé sur ma mangeoire.
Les fleurs s’ouvraient face au soleil.
Une petite étincelle d’espoir rayonnait.
Et les gens se promenaient de nouveau.
The Beauty of Another Day
The beauty of another day
lies waiting in the shadows,
peeking through the branches
of a frosty December morn.
The brightness of your eyes
smile across the pillow,
waking me to the pleasures
of a brand-new day.
Being in your arms
the chill of winter retreats.
If only for the moment,
we know each other’s warmth.
Shadows now lifted,
brilliant daybreak shines.
The beauty of another day,
as seen through lover’s eyes.
La beauté d’un autre jour
La beauté d’un autre jour
se trouve en attendant parmi les ombres,
et en regardent par les branches
d’un matin glacial de décembre.
L’étincelle de tes yeux
sourit sur l’oreiller,
me réveillant aux plaisirs
d’une nouvelle journée.
Dans tes bras –
le frisson des refuges hivernaux.
Si seulement pour l’instant,
on pourrait ressentir la chaleur de l’autre.
Les ombres, disparues
Le soleil brille.
La beauté d’un autre jour,
vu par les yeux du bien -aimé.
Sinking into Night
Sun setting behind trees.
Branches swallow grief.
You were never there for me –
never
for yourself.
Brown rules over green,
as gray paints the dusk.
Marbled sky slowly descending,
floating in a pool of tears.
Cathedral bells – a death knell
to Ophelia’s dream
sinking into night.
Plongeant dans la nuit
Le soleil se couche derrière les arbres.
Les branches engloutissent la douleur.
Tu n’étais jamais là pour moi –
jamais
pour toi-même.
Le marron prédomine le vert,
dès que le gris peint le crépuscule.
Le ciel marbré tombant peu à peu,
flottant dans un torrent de larmes.
Les cloches de la cathédrale – le glas
du rêve d’Ophélie
plongeant dans la nuit.
Abandonment
Cold morning,
you are now the compilation of my life.
Abandoned in my lone bed,
the rejection is complete.
Daybreak now
a sorrowful time of disillusion.
As I count out the moments
since we last combined.
Not mere days, but months
meld into years.
An endurance
of sorrow and regret.
Relegated to the forgotten …
I despise the night!
How the pain fills me with dreams
of a yesterday when we still knew love.
Time,
you are a cruel master,
you take away all treasures.
He is forever
gone from my arms.
Cold morning.
How I miss your warmth.
L’abandon
Matin tout froid,
tu es maintenant le recueil de ma vie.
Abandonnée dans mon lit de solitude,
le rejet est absolu.
Le jour se lève maintenant
un moment pénible de déception.
Lorsque je compte les heures
depuis qu’on s’est uni pour la dernière fois
Ce ne sont pas que des jours, mais des mois
se transformant en années.
L’endurance
de la peur et du regret.
Reléguée à l’oubli…
je déteste la nuit !
Comme la douleur m’envahit de rêves
du passé quand on s’aimait toujours.
Temps,
tu es un maître cruel,
tu supprimes toute la richesse.
Il s’est pour toujours
éloigné de mes bras.
Matin tout froid,
Comme ta chaleur me manque.
Tempos Within a Heartbeat
Sweeter than a songbird’s tune,
the sound of your voice
calling my name.
You strum your guitar,
my heartstrings respond.
It is the making of
a true love song.
Synchronized style of rhythm
tempos within a heartbeat.
Sweet spot
where life is good,
not perfect,
but comfortable.
Life caught me
off guard.
I was not prepared
for you!
Les cadences d’un battement de cœur
C’est plus doux qu’un chant d’oiseau,
quand tu appelles
mon nom.
Tu grattes ta guitare,
Je suis émue.
C’est la création
d’une vraie chanson d’amour.
Style et rythme synchronisés,
Les cadences d’un battement de cœur.
Lieu paisible
où il fait bon vivre
La vie n’est pas parfaite,
mais agréable.
La vie
m’avait surpris.
Je n’étais pas prête
pour toi !
Dear Authors/Poets,
I’m back to my translation services for 2021.
If you wish to have your poetry chapbooks, poetry books, children books (prose and poetry) translated from
English to French
French to English
Mauritian Kreol to English
English to Mauritian Kreol
please feel free to send them to :
vatsfrankness@gmail.com
Translation Fee: $0.06 (Rs 2.40 Mauritian currency) per word
Translation of Individual poems may also be considered . Please send a minimum of 5 poems if you wish to have a small number of your poems translated.
Payment Method: PayPal
Looking forward to working with you.
Thank you in advance,
Kind regards,
Vatsala Radhakeesoon
Poet/Translator
Vatsala Radhakeesoon
Vatsala Radhakeesoon Poetry, Prose, Translated Works 