Dylan Thomas is the reason I write poetry. The rhythms and sounds of his words, even though they made no logical sense, were transcendent.
And this poem, “Do not go gentle into that good night,” is perhaps the greatest poem in the English Language.
It’s the first poem I remember reading that put me into a daze for weeks. Specifically, it was the second and third stanzas:
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.
I reread the poem four of five times a year, and the older I get, the more these stanzas hit me like a punch to the face.