Nice sonnet, Arthur. I could never remember exactly how many whiskey shots (I thought vodka -- prolly my Russian roots speaking) DT had had at The White Horse (where rumor has it they introduced a "Dylan Thomas special" upon his demise).
I liked the off-rhymes. Some quibbles re. mixed metaphors. E.g. I'm not sure a harp can "pluck" itself (it needs a harpist), and plucking and strumming in the same line seems a bit much (those are mutually exclusive ways of sounding the strings, after all). Also, echoes of Thomas's diction, though perhaps appropriate for the occasion, seem a bit overdone (one, at most two such echoes would have worked better for me). As is, the sonnet seems to be vying with DT himself but not coming out the winner -- a bit like John Kingdom talking (we know it's not really DT talking, right?). If you could make it move beyond mere nostalgia/admiration, resolve it with some interesting thought or observation...
Best,
Philip
-------- Message d'origine--------
De: arthur seeley [mailto:[log in to unmask]]
Date: lun. 8/18/2003 10:40
À: [log in to unmask]
Cc:
Objet: New Sub: Fifty years ago.
“ I’ve had eighteen straight whiskies, I think that’s the record…..After 39 years this is all I’ve done. “ Last words Dylan Thomas; died Nov 1953
You roused the echoes of this world with words;
staggered through Swansea, where your voice’s harp
plucked chords that strummed through owl -lit woods,
across the sea and down the dusty dark.
You stumbled blind home, mouth beer-swilled and round
with verse that swept and rolled the wild nights through
as chapel choirs from the blue hills resound
or lark mounting up the song-buckled blue.
Caitlin you folded to your thundered chest
and slung her tender through your nightmare time.
That terrible thirst begged its last drink, cursed
you, laid you long in the gutter, then came
death through your fuddled daze, your last song spilled,
honey-tongue stiffened and poetry stilled.
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