poetry

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

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 that 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

This is a poem of life although death is its main theme. Mr Thomas would have all men resist the “dying of the light”. Good, wild, wise and grave, he speaks to all of us for “Old age should burn and rave at close of day”. As much right as a young man has to resent dying, Mr Thomas tells us that even the aged, who have lived a full life, should “not go gentle into that good night.” The light is so special, so valuable, that he insists upon raging against the dying of the light.

But Mr Thomas does give us an out, a hope. It is in the title and the first line, and continues to reverberate throughout the rest of these verses. Mr Thomas says, “Do not go gentle into that good night.” For although the light dies, we ultimately go into that good night. Even though it is dark to us, Mr Thomas knows that it is good. Just as at creation God looked at his works and pronounced them good, so is the place that God has created for us in the “night”, a euphemism for eternity.

Mr Thomas even speaks to the God made man, Jesus, who died as a man on a cross. In the throes of a hideous death, our poet asks the Father, “there on that sad height”, to look at the dying of the light as something to rage against, thereby cursing, but then blessing us his creatures, made in his image and likeness, with His fierce tears. Somehow, through God
living and then dying as a man, we all receive a blessing. However if even Christ rages against the dying of the light as He must have being God and man, that light must be a special one indeed.

So, as we are exhorted by Mr Thomas to “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”, as it applies to our life, we must realize one more thing. Just as we have within us that light, so do all men. All life, all God-created life, is of special value. For those who cannot rage against the dying of their light, the helpless, the infirmed, the unborn, we have to be like Christ and curse, bless them with our fierce tears.

(An original essay by JLVidrine)

O, brazen leaves, boldly rustling in the north breeze.

Will not quite give it up!
Life ebbing; dry, wrinkled, lifeless looking.
Yet the will to be remains.

O, brazen leaves, resisting the autumnal prerogative.

Hanging on! Resisting the forces of time,
Somehow hoping time will stop; a moment frozen
to keep forever, like summer in the Arctic climes.

O, brazen leaves, dried and brown.

Knowing deep down that as the other leaves have died
and fallen to the ground,
so will the rest that still hang on.

O, brazen leaves, that know not time nor temerity.

Heavenly hope having high expectations,
half-dead; yet noisy, cajoling, like a good group of friends.
Pushing one to ponder this visible proof of rebirth, of resurrection.

O, brazen leaves, boldly rustling.

Stoic external.
Officiousness imprinted in the bricks and imposing entry edifice.
Institutional architecture, rising in front,
as one walks the walk.

I go voluntarily; many others do not.
Through sallyports, clanging automatic heavy metal grills.
Then, a hush; contrasting quiet to the cacophony of clanging
down the corridors of convicts.

In a short walk, one leaves a world of unimpeded movement
and open possibilities. Joining the throngs of the misused and users,
liars and thieves; Addicts all…
Addicted to power, violence, drugs. CONVICTED.

Welcoming from the gatekeeper and the keeper of the keys.
Everyday the same question, “Will I be their prey today?”
Safety requires it, sanity precludes it.
And so, I pray today.

Fear shown is a loss of control, a giving away of oneself.
Compassion, caring, freely given is a gaining of control-
the reason to be here.
In a short walk, I can choose to make a difference for better,
to give this walk meaning and significance.

Rajor wire, M16’s, pepper gas and riot batons.
Shanks, hooch, shakedown, lockdown.
Death row.
A short walk.