Yesterday was the birthday of the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas. It was the power of Thomas's poetry that snared me at seventeen. I've been lost in poems ever since. Now much older than he lived to be, I fool around at writing, but really, I'm just a great audience for real poets.
Kerry at IGRT reminded me of Dylan Thomas's birthday, so I blame her for this:
YOUNG AND EASY
on reading Dylan Thomas in October
And so,
The gifts that sift and fall
On fallow ground
Grow old and spotted
As October's rose
Or the hand that holds them now.
Unyoked, you plow plant reap
Fine wheat.
Too soon, too young
You scatter, seed, outrun
The dying sun.
