Poets Reading Poetry: Dylan Thomas

Poetry is meant to be read aloud, but rarely is. As Oscar Wilde once said, "A poet can survive everything but a misprint."

So, cutting out the middle man, here is where we'll post famous poets reading their own poetry--the words off the page and in your ears, as they intended. And hopefully nothing is lost in the process.


Today:  Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas had a brief, albeit feisty life that was quickly snuffed out from hard living, with work that often focused on death and dying--including his most famous poem, "Do not go gentle into that good night"--our focus today.

The poem has no title, hence why the first line is used as replacement for a title, and is possibly the most famous form of a villanelle--a poetic form that is highly structured. Five tercets followed by a quatrain, with two refrains and two repeating rhymes, all while the first and third line of the first tercet is repeated alternately until the last stanza, which includes both repeated lines. So, no, this is not your average free verse poetry.

Thomas wrote the poem for his dying father (who was also going blind at the time--so picture all that light and night and whatnot), which not-so-subtly suggests the dark tone of the work. Originally published in 1951 in the Italian literary journal Botteghe Oscure, which had a brief 12-year run between 1948 and 1960 (when it shut down), Dylan would barely live two years beyond his most famous work.

For a 37-year old, his recitation sounds like that of a 77-year old, cast out of Downton Abbey, with trills and depressed flourishes that makes you want to drink.

But considering Thomas, a drink is the whole point.


Do not go gentle into that good night, by Dylan Thomas

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 grieve 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.