Words on Walls

Last Tuesday, I received some very thought-provoking suggestions and observations about my writing for this project thus far.  One that I’ve been mulling over for the past few days is the suggestion that I explore different forms of poetry, changing up length and structure and repetition.  I’ve played around with this suggestion a bit since then, but I’m finding the writing process difficult.  I used to write much more structured poems—in late elementary school and early middle school I especially loved Romantic poets (especially William Wordsworth) and would try to imitate their structured styles.  Since then, my poetic voice has changed quite a bit, probably from reading many more modern poets.  All in all, I think that this shift has been helpful in facilitating the expression of certain concepts, feelings, or experiences that might not lend themselves as well to a more structured form.  However, over the next few weeks, I will try to produce some pieces with more structure.  I haven’t begun thinking of these poems as a collection yet.  I have only just written many of them and so thinking about how each piece will fit into a larger body of poetry is difficult.  Nevertheless, I think that varied structure, as well as shorter and longer pieces, may very well make for a more cohesive—and interesting!—body of work.

Below, I’m including a villanelle by Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) that I’ve especially enjoyed as I begin to think once again about poetic forms.  This particular poem was written for his dying father:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas, 1951 or 1952