I always feel a twinge of wounded pride,
A slight sharp pain of anger and offense,
When somebody dispraises Dylan Thomas.
His poems were my Bible at sixteen:
He taught me that anything could be done
Within the frame of the ten-syllable line.
(I think of him, weirdly, as family:
A year before she died, his daughter came
To Harvard Square and read her own poetry.
I missed the reading. When I found Aeronwy
On YouTube, at the very first word she spoke,
I started weeping, mourning the lost chance.)
And now I see the respectable Mr McClatchy
Has called the work of Dylan Thomas "bunkum."
Entitled to his opinion, but has old J. D.
Written a line as lasting in the mind
As Do not go gentle into that good night?
Or This sandgrain day in the bent bay’s grave?
Has he enlivened English so that passionate youth
Want to make poetry their life-work, their life-love?
No, nobody touches Dylan when I'm around
Or we're going to have a friendly discussion.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 369 times
Written on 2018-01-16 at 08:54
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