Frank---
not a cooperative subject---distance, language and poetry.
,. . . on a clifftop overlooking
a brick built boathouse painted lemon.
No ty bachhere.
what does this mean?
distance does not improve the heart....i wish to see the man, to become engaged quickly....no what i mean?
The poet once leaned at this window
to gaze, a marsh, an estuary of the Taff
unbroken to the Severn and the Celtic Sea.
you see what i mean....
Little boats bob among wind waving
reeds and lovers entwine, be mine,
be mine.
i do love these three lines...the flavor, the scent of Thomas.
...tourists climb the cliff path
to peer in at a summer coat that hangs
on a chair as if he's just popped out to buy
another bottle of bitter beer. The council
thought it right that people can see where
the great man worked, did he really work
here from this dilapidated shed.
i understand, but could be summarized....
his all weather mackinaw carelessly hung over a chair,
hen could return from the pub at any moment.
It could be bugger all, Llaregub, with
Polly Garter, Gossamer Beynon and Sinbad
Sailor. Caitlin learned to cut his egg just
as Mam did, he never knew how, never tried.
He beat her when the haze came over him
and she learned to return in kind.
Muddled, befuddled like Captain Cat,
Mog Edwards and Myfanwy Price. Sex
and violence never far away in his gin
sodden, bed-wetting dreams.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuPO2Kvqlms
I want something more here, i wonder what?
The sea, the sea, never far from the waves
that breaks incessantly on the shore.
He would watch the sun go down over
Eire, that hidden land of the bards
and dream as he wrote, invent words.
He left his mark, alcohol left its mark,
on a fatty liver, 18 shots of vodka done
him in proper, shortened his life, he'd
pissed it all up against a wall,
debauched the rotund smooth
hairless body. Despair his legacy,
the town drunk of an insignificant
village in a little known land of hills.
a vivid bio in the Telegraph:
https://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/fil ... homas.html