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PostPosted: 10 Jun 2018, 00:45 
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Location: Between the mountains and the sea
V3

. . . on a clifftop overlooking a stone boathouse
painted lemon. No ty bach here, he used the bushes.
Below, the marsh, an estuary of the Taff, the Severn

and the Celtic Sea. Little boats bob among wind-waving
reeds, he watched lovers entwine, Polly Garter
and Gossamer Beynon, characters from Bugger All,

Llareggub. He sat and imagined Captain Cat pull
in his lobster pots, listened as he recounts the terrors
of his guilt-strewn dreams and the symphony

of the sedge warbler's call, an infinite variety of songs
in series, ratchet trills and warbled peeps. No one
warbler's-call the same, endlessly recombined, complex

far beyond any past or present composers' understanding.
The warmth of the sun, the music from the marsh, the cool
breeze relieving the heat of summer and the caress of a pint

of bitter beer combining to make his nirvana. All he wanted
was to sit and listen to those calls, bask in the sun, this lazy
man of Wales, this bard, this poet who worked in the magic

of words that others could not invent. He could never work
as a labourer would, how could, why should. The meanderings
of his mind far beyond that of a artisan, a bourgeoisie. He dealt

in castles of the air so far from norm he never bothered to learn
how to cut the top off his morning egg, why would he when Mam
coddled him. Caitlin took up the practice willingly. So addled

in drink, debauched in decadence he took to beating Caitlin,
and the upshot: they both took to fisticuffs. She took lovers,
in revenge, did handstands on the sands without any knickers.

They muddled through. He left his mark, alcohol scarred
his final binge: 18 shots of vodka did not help, shortened
his life, pissed it all against a wall. His mole-rat body, his

floppy lip, a fag precariously hanging from a pout. He wrote
poems that thrilled like the sedge-warbler's call and we read
them aloud, dream his dreams, the genius drunk of Laugharne.



*****
V2

. . . on a clifftop overlooking his home, a stone
boathouse painted lemon. No ty bach here,
he used the bushes. Below a marsh, an estuary

of the Taff that leads to the Severn and the Celtic Sea. Little
boats bob among wind-waving reeds, he watched lovers
entwine, Polly Garter and Gossamer Beynon, characters

from Bugger All, Llareggub he watched Captain Cat pull
in his lobster pots, heard him recount terrors from his dreams,
and the symphony of the sedge warbler's call, an infinite variety

of songs in series, ratchet trills and warbled peeps. No one
warbler's-call the same, endlessly recombined, complex
far beyond any past or present composers' understanding.

The warmth of the sun, the music from the marsh, the cool
breeze relieving the heat of summer and the caress of a pint
of bitter beer combining to make his nirvana. All he wanted

was to sit and listen to those calls, bask in the sun, this lazy
man of Wales, this bard, this poet who worked in the magic
of words that others could not invent. Arranged in series,

infinitely like the warblers call. He could never work
as a labourer would, how could, why should. The meanderings
of his mind far beyond that of a artisan, a bourgeoisie. He dealt

in castles of the air. So far from norm he never bothered to learn
how to cut the top off his morning egg, why would he when Mam
coddled him. Caitlin took up the practice willingly. So addled

in drink, debauched in decadence he beat Caitlin for her troubles,
beat that beautiful woman, beat the devil in. She took lovers,
in revenge, returned the beatings when he at his weakest.

They muddled through. He left his mark, alcohol scarred
his fatty liver, 18 shots of vodka done for him, shortened
his life, pissed it all up against a wall. His mole-rat body, his

floppy lip, a fag precariously hung from a pout. He wrote poems
that trilled like the sedge warbler's call, and we read them
aloud and dream his dreams, the genius drunk at Laugharne.


[size=95][In Marxist philosophy the bourgeoisie is the social class that came
to own the means of production during modern industrialization and whose
societal concerns are the value of property and the preservation of capital,
to ensure the perpetuation of their economic supremacy in society.
Joseph Schumpeter saw the creation of new bourgeoisie as the driving force
behind the capitalist engine, particularly entrepreneurs who took risks to bring
innovation to industries and the economy through the process of creative
destruction.]







*****


V1

A wooden shed
upon a clifftop facing west
overlooking a boathouse and
marsh leading out to the Irish sea.

His coat hangs on a chair,
a gentleman's coat, a man of leisure
a man who writes secluded
from the bustle of this world.

Photos of family adorn the wall.
Some books, papers strewn
across his desk. A bottle of bitter
stands forlorn, wine his more
recent tipple.

A poor man's garage turned into
a sun room. No pretentions of wealth.
His class hidden, his gift: the music
of words, colours spoken
like a green sea, evocative
that change lives.

Children reading aloud to their families
at Christmas: "You'll be sorry in the morning . . ."
"Rage! Rage! against . . ."

He left his mark, the world marked him.
Alcohol his passion, shortened his life,
pissed it all up against a wall,
debauched the rotund smooth hairless
body God gave him. Despair his legacy,
the town drunk of Laugharne.
[/size]


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PostPosted: 10 Jun 2018, 01:40 
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Frank----


telly. poem runs the risk of becoming maudlin, making thomas boring...

let's hear the rage....feel the man.

what smells can you offer? he liked cockle and bacon chowder. frying sausage. nights curled with his wife against the wind, a short glass of Penderyn single malt...finishing with a log fire.

another quote:

For there are ghosts in the air

And ghostly echoes on paper,

computer crash...have to close.


bernie




How soon the servant sun,
(Sir morrow mark),
Can time unriddle, and the cupboard stone,
(Fog has a bone
He'll trumpet into meat),
Unshelve that all my gristles have a gown
And the naked egg stand straight,

Sir morrow at his sponge,
(The wound records),
The nurse of giants by the cut sea basin,
(Fog by his spring
Soaks up the sewing tides),
Tells you and you, my masters, as his strange
Man morrow blows through food.

All nerves to serve the sun,
The rite of light,
A claw I question from the mouse's bone,
The long-tailed stone
Trap I with coil and sheet,
Let the soil squeal I am the biting man
And the velvet dead inch out.

How soon my level, lord,
(Sir morrow stamps
Two heels of water on the floor of seed),
Shall raise a lamp
Or spirit up a cloud,
Erect a walking centre in the shroud,
Invisible on the stump

A leg as long as trees,
This inward sir,
Mister and master, darkness for his eyes,
The womb-eyed, cries,
And all sweet hell, deaf as an hour's ear,
Blasts back the trumpet voice.


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PostPosted: 10 Jun 2018, 01:46 
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Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Thanks Bernie
shall attend to it.


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 Post subject: Re: Shed at Laugharne
PostPosted: 11 Jun 2018, 14:54 
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Posts: 566
This version much better Be cool if you could work in the 18 shots he downed st The White Horse Tavern in NY that did him in


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 Post subject: Re: Shed at Laugharne
PostPosted: 11 Jun 2018, 16:01 
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Posts: 1121
Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Yes
then the poem will grow.
Strange some say his drinking didn't kill him
fatty liver didn't help, the 18 shots the final straw.

I am and will refine.
Thanks all.


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 Post subject: Re: Shed at Laugharne
PostPosted: 11 Jun 2018, 16:37 
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Looking forward


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 Post subject: Re: Shed at Laugharne
PostPosted: 11 Jun 2018, 22:33 
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Posts: 752
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


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 Post subject: Re: Shed at Laugharne
PostPosted: 12 Jun 2018, 19:45 
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Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Thanks Bernie, I think I have lifted parts from
the mundane. Maybe more to close.


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 Post subject: Re: Shed at Laugharne
PostPosted: 12 Jun 2018, 22:33 
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This revision is much better....am enjoying it....


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 Post subject: Re: Shed at Laugharne
PostPosted: 13 Jun 2018, 04:38 
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I had not seen this film about Dylan, just magnificent.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDAXkhTwTFM






bernie


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 Post subject: Re: Shed at Laugharne
PostPosted: 13 Jun 2018, 11:28 
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Posts: 1121
Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Thank you Bernie
I had not seen that film before. The seascapes are every true
the accents not so these days since the advent of a better
secondary education for all. The strong Welsh accent has
tempered since those days, we speak a unique version
of the English language, more like Richard Burton than
the old ways. Poverty is relative, there is no utter poverty here
even the poorest have their 40" TV screens, their computers,
iPads and mobile phones and their electronic games. You do
not see children play in the street or sing in Welsh, the chapels
are a dying institution, even the massed ranks of the National
stadium cannot sing more than 2 lines from a hymn in Welsh
or English for that matter. We are a shadow of a people, we live
in tha past, and that past limited to one hndred years. Few know
of the great religious revival in 1904, few know of the Heroes
who made the land, a fistful know of the Maginogion.
But the seascapes remain, the moorland and the salt marshlands
the mountains, the vales and lakes, but now flooded with English
visitors who deposit a thousand carpets of rubbish every day.

Whatever Dylan was he wasn't Wales, he was a recanter of tales
and observer, he was the odd man out, brilliant, but no he wasn't
Wales. I cannot boast about him, I never owned him. If you
asked about Burton, I would be sympathertic, he echoed much
of my way of thinking and he was closer, much closer to the spirit
of my people.


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PostPosted: 13 Jun 2018, 21:42 
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Frank---



ah, there's your poem.....


bernie


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PostPosted: 14 Jun 2018, 01:22 
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Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Value your input Bernie
you make us work hard,
excellent workshopping
thank you.

Bob, thanks, glad you like

and Ken. :)


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PostPosted: 15 Jun 2018, 13:27 
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Location: Between the mountains and the sea
I've redefined Dylan somewhat
from my first poem, many thanks
to you all for the input, I feel it is
a more detailed look at the great man.
I made a visit a few years back with my sister
and B. was right to demand more, I remembered that
day, the sounds of the birds, the reeds brushing
in the wind, the sun setting on a Celtic sea, the
loneliness of the place, its emptiness. A castel
standing out on the hill, savage reminder of the
Sais, the enemy, the English. So I wrote in response
to B. what I saw that day from his shed perched
on the cliff, so it is my eyes that saw, but he might
have seen it the way I saw it.


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PostPosted: 15 Jun 2018, 20:54 
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Frank---

better, but still much too long.

and too many warblers....

and the symphony of the sedge warbler's call, an infinite variety

of songs in series, ratchet trills and warbled peeps. No one
warbler's-call the same,


and other uses of the words later in the poem.

still seems flat.

this man was on the radio in London, made films during the war, went to the United States four times. Richard Burton reads his poems today.

and what is the reference for his physical abuse of his wife?

and no mention of three children.


the last verse is my favorite, i actually see the man....


this is a tough, tough subject. keep at it.


bernie


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PostPosted: 15 Jun 2018, 22:22 
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Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Okay, thanks again Bernie
I shall cut it down again, but I don't intend
to add three children. It's the little shed at Laugharne
how he sat and drank beer, Ireland, and the marsh,
and his death in London, liver failed him.
Llareggub was based on Laugharne.


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PostPosted: 15 Jun 2018, 22:39 
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Frank---

he died in new york. 1953. Caitlin in this marvelous and lashing interview with Vincent Kane, says she went to see him, drunk on the plane.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQzcQ1KVFaM


ushered in to him, and Dylan silent under an oxygen tent, she sat and and rolled a cigarette....


no, no kids. probably a shallow chapter.

but a shed? his study? not very dashing compared with all the other facts of his life...meeting Caitlin....love at first view, the lady patrons...his three tours in America....

my god, his own words...


here is something, his voice, his wit...oh god, his wit...

speaking of poets traveling in America he says:


"...my self among them, booming with the worst."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lBEU3l9sGHA


and here is that godamn shed...(LOL)


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFbyq2cZHgE


he makes it glorious...and soon moves outside....

those first few lines:


This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house
On a breakneck of rocks
Tangled with chirrup and fruit,



and later:

Only the drowned deep bells
Of sheep and churches noise
Poor peace as the sun sets
And dark shoals every holy field.



and here at the poem's end:


The water lidded lands,
Manned with their loves they'll move,
Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
Huloo, my proud dove with a flute!
Ahoy, old, sea-legged fox,
Tom tit and Dai mouse!
My ark sings in the sun
At God speeded summer's end
And the flood flowers now.





and while i'm mucking about with your pom, let me give you this "news" about those 18 whiskies...and Thomas drinking himself to death:


Dylan Thomas, the great lost Welsh poet of his century, was killed not by his heavy drinking but by the mistakes and oversights of his physician, according to new evidence in a biography to be published on Monday.

The book discloses that Thomas was found to be suffering from pneumonia by doctors who examined him when he was admitted in a coma to the New York hospital where he died in November 1953 shortly after his 39th birthday.

The discovery calls into question 50 years of assumptions that the author of Under Milk Wood and enduring poems on the holy innocence of childhood died from an alcoholic "insult to the brain" - the result of a binge in which, as he allegedly boasted, he drank "18 straight whiskies; I think it's a record".



Dylan Thomas, the great lost Welsh poet of his century, was killed not by his heavy drinking but by the mistakes and oversights of his physician, according to new evidence in a biography to be published on Monday.
The book discloses that Thomas was found to be suffering from pneumonia by doctors who examined him when he was admitted in a coma to the New York hospital where he died in November 1953 shortly after his 39th birthday.

The discovery calls into question 50 years of assumptions that the author of Under Milk Wood and enduring poems on the holy innocence of childhood died from an alcoholic "insult to the brain" - the result of a binge in which, as he allegedly boasted, he drank "18 straight whiskies; I think it's a record".


https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2004/nov ... .booksnews



bernie


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PostPosted: 16 Jun 2018, 00:04 
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Location: Between the mountains and the sea
I visited the shed, a drab thing hanging precariously over the cliff
a small shed, a kind of garage, only he used it to write, the car
would be placed there at one time rather than the descend to the boathouse.
It's about the shed, you want more, and I can understand, I know he had
a life full of contradictions, he only had to speak one line of a poem a
and women would metaphorically remove their drawers. He had power
in the voice, a resonance, his poems could be read and men would respond
to a line with delight as they recognised it as true. But my poor poem reflects
life in the shed, he sat there, he wrote, he listened and at night visited the pub,
how could I fit it all in. Impossible. So I limit the poem to the shed, I shall work
on it more so it can be read aloud.

His accent in the first video is a copy posh English accent that would not be received
well in Wales today, we want nothing to do with the English we want to be who we are
the accent has changed, it is more neutral now, still we accentuate every vowel, not so
musically as before. Our diction is distinguished by being the common man's way
of speaking, our grammar more polished, our educated people careful not to emulate
English upper class, very careful.

I don't like him very much, because he is in the past, I don't deny his greatness
it's just my choice. I would tell every thing in a lower key, won't accentuate the
language, the vowels, the sing song quality, the highfalutin way he spoke
at times. My Wales is industrial, men of steel and clear unequivocal language
aggressive, miners, steel workers, soldiers, a man's world. And sure there
are intellectuals too and bards, but normal life. Many of his characters
are caricatures, they don't exist, they have never existed. At one time
I laughed, now I am embarrassed.

So the poem is subdued, seemingly savage to his memory, it's how
I see him, a pathetic drunk with a tinge of genius. Some poems
stand out, some parts of stories too.

If you wish to read of a real down to earth Welsh man read Richard Burton's
diaries. See how he speaks of the English, the Irish, his venom, his deep seated
prejudices. Not very nice, but then most of what we say and do is just a veneer.

Take this:
I don't expect much from the Irish - a lot that I know so well that I
despise them, everything about them, their posturing, the silly soft accents,
their literature, especially Joyce, Synge but not including Yeats who writes like
a great Anglo - original sparse strange - yes Hopkins - and I hate their genius
for self-advertising, their mock belligerence, their obvious charm. For
the opposite reasons I love the Scots and the South Welsh and even
prefer the English, especially the taciturn midlands and north Country.

p. 507.
The Richard Burton Diaries
edited by Chris Williams
Yale University Press, New Haven & London - paperback 2013

How cruel a way to write, how can one write off a whole people
even if it is true of a few, here he speaks his mind with all the
inherant prejudice of history of one people on another. Yet we
recognise some of what he says as true for enough to label
a people. I daresay we all speak thus in our diaries in some
way. Much of what he writes in his diary, not perfect grammar
or spelling, but commons a sense approach, real life. I prefer that
I really do.


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PostPosted: 16 Jun 2018, 09:31 
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Which is your final edited poem? Frank, please post it above your first draft. There are so many versions,it is impossible to find out the right readable and usable version.

S


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PostPosted: 16 Jun 2018, 10:00 
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Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Not many, just three
I have labelled them V1-V3
to make it easier to find yor way.
Thank you for your interest.


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PostPosted: 16 Jun 2018, 10:20 
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Thank you.


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PostPosted: 16 Jun 2018, 20:31 
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Frank---


version 3 is smooth.

but i ask again, what is the source for this:

...in drink, debauched in decadence he beat Caitlin for her troubles,
beat that beautiful woman, beat the devil in
.


but still no indication that he was a rock star poet, no indication of his humor, self abnegation, long marriage and unfailing return to Wales...the tireless rewriting, monumental originality of his work.

Perhaps his reputatin has flagged just a bit---modern readers demand poems make literal and obvious sense---i agree, but that noted, and perhaps even a stronger tendency that our age suggests for less self promotion, but lordie....

let's think big....


bernie


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PostPosted: 16 Jun 2018, 22:31 
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Location: Between the mountains and the sea
I appreciate your concern Bernie and take note.
This poem gives a different view I suppose, the facts
are real, taken from books and newspaper accounts of his
activities. It is not a rounded view, it is a jaundiced
view such as chapel goer would write, but then it
should counter the many views already written that
lionise him. There is no doubt that he beat Caitlin
and she, big strong woman, dished it out in full;
also she took lovers as revenge for his caterwauling.
We shouldn't speak ill of the dead, the price of stardom
I'm afraid. How could one poem do justice to his short life
how could I squeeze it all in, impossible. So a short
account of the shed and a few sprinkled details and
then death. I just can't squeeze it all in, that would
be another poem, I must admit I never liked most
of his work, only a few poems and a few stories.
He is out of date with his stories now, even then
he waxed much and pushed poetic licence. I admit
on occasions his baritone voice was superb when
reading some of his own work. Burton is better
because of his rough working class voice, Hopkins
failed miserably when comparing the same poem
by the three read aloud. My jab at him is my view,
I can't write any other way about him.

Maybe you feel dogs should not howl at masters
I sympathise with that sentiment.

You make a valid point about what truly killed him
and the weakness of his doctor attending, yet we know
that drink kills the body, slowly, other illnesses creep
and kill the heavy drinker. My own pal who boasted
of 20 pints of beer a day died at 50, not directly through
drink but an aneurism in the brain, but we know it was alcohol.

If you really feel I am totally unfair I will withdraw the poem.

But it gets these days one cannot write poems for fear
of offending almost evryone.


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PostPosted: 22 Jun 2018, 11:02 
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Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Francesco, the son of Caitlin and Giuseppe Fazio attempts to set
the record straight about Caitlin, widow of the poet Dylan Thomas).
He tells a simple story, certainly not embellished at all but heart
wrenching in its simple truth: his mother was suicidal, violent,
self destructive and beat Dylan.

Quote:
My mother's luck was that she met a very strong man, my father,
Giuseppe who would not put up with the drinking and the violence.
Caitlin used to attack Dylan physically and when she first met my father
she punched him on the nose. My father saved her life many times when
she tried to commit suicide. Not long after they met, she threw herself
from a balcony at a party in Rome. He saved her by grabbing her by the
ankles while she dangled in mid air.


I know my poem goes against the grain, maybe some find it upsetting,
but then it is a viewpoint that focuses on the negative elements in the man.
Should we airbrush all great men, or tell it as it is. Of course I recognise
Dylan's gifts, I can't say he is my favourite poet, so why should we always
focus on one aspect of his character. Should poetry provoke a response
I guess some of mine does, why should I climb on a hate campaign about
Trump as most so, why can't I speak for the majority who voted for him,
at least the majority in the sense he won using the electoral system used
in the USA. Why should a contra view be banned by some poetry forums,
because it upsets some who vent hysterically about Trump yet look fondly
at monsters like Mugabe of Zimbabwe. Some might say, you haven't
earned the right to demean the great poet, you are just a tin-pot poet.
Fair comment, but we have to start somewhere. Are we only to write
in platitudes, or should we develop a vice of our own for the times
we live in.

It is difficult, some topics like abortion, homosexuality, religion, politics
the rights of women in a modern society, feminism, etc. etc always seem
to engender hatred in a response, that is to be expected. My view is that
there is a growing intolerance in society generally against conservatism
and especially in the world of art/ poetry. The fringes are now becoming
the norm, it's not right (so some say) to speak ill of the dead, to condemn
alcoholism as a killer of the soul, it's not legal in the UK to speak against
homosexuality, even the Church of England now sells its soul and ordains
homosexual bishops as long as they do not indulge in homosexual acts.

My poetry is not designed per se to upset people, it reflects points
of view that are or may not be the norm, they may verge to conservatism
I suppose if I was an American I would be a Republican and not a liberal
Democrat. I may very well also be a hypocrite, saying one thing, or rather
writing one way and living in another completely different way. Poetry
allows one to stray into strange fields of play.

But generally I feel it's best to stay with the quality of the poem, is it well
written, well constructive, is it non-repetitive, is the grammar within the
bounds of what is acceptable, is the punctuation regular. Is the style modern
and not fanciful, is the subject matter recognisable and not some ghoulish
fiction like the work of poor Edgar A. Poe. Having said all that we go the way
the meanderings of our brain takes us on the day, tomorrow I could write
in a completely different way to what I say today. Isn't poetry grand.

https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-ente ... 88627.html

Quote:
Dylan was my mother's ruin
She was known as the drunken wife of Dylan Thomas. Now Caitlin's son aims to rescue his mother's reputation.
By Ann McFerran- [INDEPENDENT - online newspaper]
Wednesday 2 December 1998 01:02


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