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A CRY AND A PRAYER: DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT by Dylan Thomas

 

Peter Thabit Jones

 

It was the chronic illness of D.J. (David John) Thomas, Dylan’s father, that inspired one of Dylan’s most famous poems, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, a villanelle that is a cry and a prayer, written in 1951. 

D.J. eventually died on the 16th of December, 1952.

 

In singing ‘for the love of Man and in praise of God’ Dylan Thomas was always aware that every birth involves death, every death involves birth, for human life and the natural process are one.  Out of this realisation comes what the American poet John Ciardi called ‘the prayer behind the prayer’, in other words the elegiac voice, the undersong of the brassy orator with the ‘lovely gift of the gab’.

 

‘The eternal note of sadness’, to quote the poet Matthew Arnold, pulses through ‘the colour of saying’ of many of Thomas’s famous poems. In the opening of Ceremony After a Fire Raid the elegiac voice is weighted with what Wilfred Owen believed ‘All a poet can do today is warn’. The warning is in Thomas’s deeply-felt, prayer-like first stanza.  This is the grief of public loss.                                               

                                                        

Even when the grief stems from a less public experience, a more personal one, Dylan still manages to be universal, as we shall see in in the villanelle.

 

As a young poet, Dylan was more than aware of the social aspect of the poet’s role. In Welsh-language culture, the great bards, such as Dafydd Ap Gwilym, were ‘poets of praise’.  In Especially When The October Wind, written in October 1934, Dylan, aged twenty, declares:

    

 ‘Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,

  Some of the oaken voices, from the roots’

 

The full poem is a sheer cry of delight, a young man’s acknowledgement of the wonders of an overwhelming world. 

 

It is Dylan’s autumn song of praise.  It is also a realisation that poetic language, as precious as prayer, is a powerful tool. The young Dylan was also blatantly aware of man’s mortality, the shadow always on the edge of the Eden of our days.  The early poems are obsessed with birth, copulation and death.

 

Despite the wild poet image, the serious Dylan always possessed a ‘religious streak’, if somewhat pantheistic in the early days. In a letter to Pamela Hansford Johnson, the first girlfriend, Dylan wrote, ‘to prove beyond doubt that the flesh that covers me is the flesh that covers the sun, that the blood in my lungs is the blood that goes up and down in a tree.  It is the simplicity of religion.’ 

 

The later poetry is littered with deliberate, religious imagery, such as:

 

     ‘I open the leaves of water at a passage

      Of psalms…’   from Over Sir John’s Hill

 

Humility, too, pulses through many of the last poems.  Dylan once wrote, ‘…this world which is each man’s work’.  Dylan believed in mankind, despite the darkness of the Second World War; and also believed that poetry for the true poet, like prayer for the true believer, was a daily necessity. 

                                                        

The poet’s vocation, as Wordsworth said, is ‘a priest-like task’. 

                                                    

Interestingly, Dylan’s great uncle, Gwilym Marles, was a poet and a priest. Dylan was committed totally to the poet’s craft, which culminated in a tortured but dignified cry and prayer.

 

 

The Welsh poet agreed with the poet Vernon Watkins, a Swansea friend, that ‘Cold craftsmanship is the best container of fire’.  Dylan told an American student in 1951, the year when the villanelle was written, ‘I am a painstaking, conscientious, involved and devious craftsman in words…’.

 

This devious craftsman utilised the French poetic form the villanelle for an ultimate cry of desperation to a dying father to fight against death.  It is also Dylan’s humble prayer of the real value of the light of life.

 

The villanelle form originated in Southern France, where - like the ballad - it was sung by troubadours. It was brought over to Britain during the Middle Ages and mostly used for pastoral verse but did not really take off as a poetic form. Eventually the late Victorian writer Oscar Wilde wrote several. It was William Empson, though, a poet and Cambridge academic, who brought it to real prominence in the 1930s. Empson wrote dozens of them.

                                                         

The strait-jacket of the villanelle form consists of five tercets (stanzas of three lines) and one quatrain (a stanza of four lines). 

Just two rhymes echo throughout the structure.  The first line of the villanelle is repeated as the twelfth, sixteenth and the eighteenth line; and the third line is repeated as the ninth, fifteenth and last line. 

 

Thus Dylan’s repeated lines, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’ and ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’ become an incantation of a genuine plea via the poet’s ‘craft or sullen art’.  The two lines, as they must in a villanelle, come together at the end with sheer force and directness.

                                                  

It is a passionate protest against death, a son’s cry against the father’s submission to darkness.  It has the desperation of sudden prayer. ‘Good night’, a familiar phrase, becomes an image of death.  The poem echoes lines by the Irish poet W.B. Yeats:

             

  ‘Did all old men and women rage 

      …As I do now against old age.’

 

There are also echoes of Dirge Without Music by the American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, who was born in 1892 and died in 1951.

 

Millay’s poem, in fact, appeared in ‘The New Pocket Anthology of American Verse’, edited by Dylan’s American friend Oscar Williams, which contained some poems by Dylan. These are some lines from Dirge Without Music:

 

     ‘Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

      With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.’

 

And:

 

          ‘Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave

           Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

           Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

             I know.  But I do not approve.  And I am not resigned.’

 

Dylan’s elegiac voice, though, is more raw, more desperate, more touching, and more profound.

 

Dylan confronts DJ with four types of men. 

 

The wise men, whose lifetimes of wise works failed to produce a light to lead them through the fear of death, still do not go gentle into that good night. 

 

The good men, whose good deeds ultimately are useless before oncoming death, still rage against the dying of the light. 

 

The wild men, the poets, with all their great poems of grief, do not go gentle into that good night. 

 

Lastly, the grave men the serious ones, see the tragic gaiety of mortality.  Again, in this penultimate stanza there is an echo of Yeats (Lapis Lazuli):

 

     ‘Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,

      Their ancient glittering eyes are gay.’

 

All these men, the poet claims, rage against death and do not go gentle into it.  So the father, on the ‘sad height’ of this life’s mortality, is begged to rage and rage.  It has been said that Dylan’s father never cried, not even as a child.  Thus Dylan implores, ‘Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray’. I pray, Dylan states; and the poet does pray in this rhetorical and truthful poem.  For this is a prayer for courage and dignity in the face of ‘the eternal note of sadness’. 

 

We are born to die.  The poem is also a stark cry from a desperate son to a defeated father, who at the end was a semi-invalid and actually going blind.  D.J. was also a committed atheist.

 

The Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca, whose poetry (translated into English) Vernon Watkins read to Dylan, said:

 

‘The artist, and particularly the poet…can only listen to the voices that rise up from within… three imperious voices: the voice of Death, with all its presentiments; the voice of Love and the voice of Art’.

 

                                                   

Dylan achieves all three in this beautifully constructed and moving work. The emotional cry and the controlled prayer are one within the formality of the villanelle. This cry from the soul, this assertive prayer, should not surprise us.  For this, of course, is the same poet who wrote in another poem (Fern Hill):

 

     ‘Time held me green and dying

      Though I sang in my chains like the sea.’

 

 

 

© 2023 Peter Thabit Jones

 

 

#dylanday

 

 

 Peter Thabit Jones has authored sixteen books. He has participated in festivals and conferences in America and Europe and is an annual writer-in-residence in Big Sur, California. A recipient of many awards, including the Eric Gregory Award for Poetry (The Society of Authors, London) and the Homer: European Medal of Poetry and Art, two of his dramas for the stage have premiered in America and the UK. His opera libretti for Luxembourg composer Albena Petrovic Vratchanska have premiered at the Philarmonie Luxembourg, the National Opera House Stara Zagora, Bulgaria, and Theatre National Du Luxembourg.  His latest book is A Cancer Notebook (poems). Further information: www.peterthabitjones.com

 

Dreams come true. Dream, plan, make that plan a goal. I personally had a dream, when I was in kindergarten, I dreamed that I can do as my aunt's daughter when her daughters met the president and received the state award named after Zulfiya as the world and Uzbekistan champions. Even when I was in school, I had a dream, but I didn't know how to make it happen, and in the 5th grade, I learned how to plan, and I made videos to motivate myself. When I was in the 8th grade, when the Is'haqkhan Ibrat school was opened, I was assigned to study and entered the 15th place to the school. In 2018, one of my dreams in kindergarten came true, that is, by the grace of God, I shook hands with the President of Uzbekistan Shavkat Mirziyoyev on May 3, 2018, and I set my plans as a goal. I focused on my goal and didn't even listen to the people around me. After some years, I graduated my school and enrolled at Uzbekistan State University of World Languages, another dream came true, because I became a student of my dream university. I did not stop saying "my dreams have come true, that's it", I strengthened my efforts in order to properly use the opportunities given to young people due to their language skills, and until now I have been a participant, coordinator, organizer, and volunteer of many projects. I am blogging because of my interest, I have been sharing my achievements and my knowledge of how to have these achievements for more than 1000 young people. In addition, I also made students through my personal projects.

 

Alisherova Dilshoda, Uzbekistan

 

 #dylanday

 

 

Alisherova Dilshoda  - Azizkhan qizi - was born on October 23, 2003 in Turakurgan district, Namangan region, Republic of Uzbekistan. Her nationality is Uzbek. She is a graduate of Is'hoqxon Ibrat school and is currently a student of Uzbekistan State University of World Languages. Until now, she is a member, ambassador and advisor of more than 10 international organizations. Her articles have been published in more than 40 countries. She is a participant, coordinator, translator, volunteer and delegate in conferences, forums and projects organized by the Republic and the Ministry of Uzbekistan.

 

 

 

REFLECTION

 

Reflecting is kind of dreaming backwards. We can cultivate the practice and make it one of the most useful tools of our waking life. Reflecting upon something can be as narrow or as wide as your imagination decides. One can reflect on one action, one subject, one year, one book. One can also reflect on the entire fabric of one’s life; upon the results of actions and words, time given or not given to others and now, as is the growing trend, time given to ourselves. For me, there are no specific minutes earmarked for myself. Perhaps, giving to those around me, whether work, love, assistance, is fulfilling in itself and is becoming a habit; one I’ve strived long and hard to reach when I finally understood how richer I became in giving.

 

There should be a purpose to reflection. It should lead to change. We would not normally reflect on insignificant things, would we? I have developed a more open approach to life these last few months, perhaps in the last couple of years, in the forced isolation of the Covid-19 pandemic. I have noticed my horizon expanding more than I would have thought possible, let’s say, 3 years ago. I am better invested in more things, am meeting wonderful new people, engaging in activities and exploring amazing new avenues. This, in turn, is forcing me to delve deeper into myself because I know I will find the tools, some still gleaming and unused, to deal with what faces me with each new dawn.

 

I have shed many barriers, mostly emotional ones. If it were not for convention, I would shed all of them; I’m not there yet. I wouldn’t want those around me to think ‘she’s gone completely off’. I won’t give them that satisfaction. But:

I no longer react as negatively, after initial shocks of confrontation. I quickly return to the point of neutrality and try to deal with issues by not involving emotion in the solutions. It’s not easy but gets better with practice. Visually, I imagine a body of water when a stone is thrown in; the ripple and fade effect.

I listen. I evaluate. I agree or do not agree. I take into consideration even if I don’t like. I can apologize without losing face, and sometimes when it is not my fault but it would move things along.

***

Does reflection lead to a change in perspective? We base our truths on what our perspective is. Therefore, our perspective should have a solid base so we can build on dependable foundations. If we disagree with someone, we should keep in mind that the other person’s words and actions are built on that person’s truth and make sense to them. This should lead us to not dismiss them. This should make us think, evaluate and try to understand them. It’s okay to agree to disagree; this creates and nourishes respect for truths that are not ours. How boring it would be if everyone had the same perspective, the same goals, the same paths. It would be really congested in those highway lanes.

 

This brings me to the subject of maturity. That is a word that is bandied about without giving it the full benefit of understanding. We believe that maturity only comes with age and some of it certainly does. That involves taking into consideration the experiences and lessons learned over many years. That involves our interaction with people we have met over those years and the outcomes of these interactions. The fabric of our lives becomes richer as we collect more threads to weave it with. The hues and nuances lend more color and our memories get cemented. These memories bring on smiles, just like photographs instantly transport us back to a certain day. On the other hand, photos can bring on questions like ‘who was that again’?

 

Which now brings me to the subject of forgetfulness. I should say the blessing of forgetfulness. As we age, we reach a point where we think ‘I’ve been there, done that.’ We do not need to be reminded of everything we’ve gone through. Our mind sifts and our mind prioritizes and our mind keeps mementos. These mementos are the albums we revisit and reflect upon with nostalgia and occasionally with regret.

Reflection. Let your reflection lead you to fill a space in your soul, with happy, sometimes idealized items that colored your life, sustained you, played with you and made you a better person.

 

I’m still building that. I revisit my space and do some spring-cleaning from time to time. Sometimes my back aches when I have to carry heavy loads to the trashcan. But believe me, this is quite necessary and we should be ruthless in discarding the cancers and the covids that threaten the harmony of our lives.

***

Reflection. A loaded word. A trigger. A big deal? Sure. Some people keep journals, I didn’t. Ever since my first child was little, I wanted to. Now, decades later, that niggles my mind as the once vivid images are fading. What glorious times I’d have had, re-reading school antics or about my kids’ innocent reactions to the discoveries of their young lives. So be it. Not meant to be.

 

Dear friends, go on, make reflection part of your routine, whether when you wake up in the morning or just before bed. Set fresh goals, embrace what you’ve done and hold your brightest brush and most effective eraser. Either brush confidently when you approve of your actions or quickly erase away an unwelcome direction you had taken, if not good, and plant your feet anew in a different way. That is the beauty and the blessing we are given free of charge, to mold and enjoy and move forward.

That - is LIFE.

 

 

Andie Petrides, Greece

 

#dylanday

 

Andie Petrides was born in the Middle East to Greek parents. She grew up in Amman, Jordan in a small, close-knit Greek community of a dozen families who tried to keep alive the Greek traditions and language in a foreign environment.

Andie holds a Master’s degree in International Business after studying Biology as an undergrad. Today, she is the Director of the Hellenic Writers Group of Washington DC (HWGW) and a Division Director of District 105 in Toastmasters.

Always an avid reader, Andie is fluent in four languages (English, French, Greek and Arabic). She is a writer of children’s fiction and also works as a freelance proofreader. She likes to use poetry for personal expression.