I thought we might take a little time this month to look at poems we love. For me, the one I want to share with you is one about death, and it's a structured poem, but I don't want to talk about death or structure, I want to talk about something else. I want to share.
That being said, here's the poem.
Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953
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.
It seems simple, right? Well the first time I heard it read out loud, I cried.
Some of you may know this, but many of you may not. When I was in high school [your ages] my mother was incredibly sick. She got a disease that was making it hard for her to do typical things like walk, repeat herself, lift her arm, and fight off illnesses like the common cold or the flu.
I was in eleventh grade when I heard this poem, and my mother had been sick for a long time. She got sick my freshman year in High School, or deathly sick anyway, and at the time, she was still undiagnosed. I thought she was going to die. I really did.
I had spent the past three years preparing myself for the day my mom was going to die because of some illness, or because she stumbled since she was dizzy all the time, or because she drove off the road into a tree. When I heard this poem, it struck me hard because it was exactly what I wanted my mother to do, and I saw my mother in it too.
She was fighting against the people who made her sick, she was bringing in OCEA to her workplace to clean it up, and she was practically sueing them with allegations. The only difference is that we wouldn't get compensation for it, she would be getting to keep her job, and her job couldn't harass her or fire her for the illness they caused.
To me, "Rage, rage against the dying of the light" was the most heartfelt plea I had ever heard.
When I found out the poem was a villanelle, when I found out it was written in iambic pentameter, and that the lines rhymed, when I found out it was written about a son watching his father die from old age, I just absorbed the information. I didn't register it. I remembered the poem so viscerally it was like the words had burned me, scared me, and I could never let them go.
As I grew older, and my mom got better, I was able to read the poem again without the shadow of dread the poem made me feel, but I still come back to it and listen to it, I still read it because I remember that time in my life when I had to be strong. I couldn't talk about what was going on with my mother at first because of OCEA, and then because I didn't know how to talk about it, or what to say, what words would express it properly aside from those above, and eventually, I learned to write about it myself. That was the first way I opened up about my feelings for my mother, poetry.
I wanted to share this poem with you, and this story, because I think it's something we can all rally behind. This poem may be about death in the short-term, but it's about life in the undertones. It's about the way we fight through hardship, and suffering. We "rage, rage against the dying of light" every day we fight to get up when we are sick, or tired. We "do not go gentle into that good night" as we distort it with our flashlights, our monitors, our phones, or even our defiance in the face of adversity and the temptations of death.
I think the dance here in this poem, these lines about wild youth, and our desires to be remembered, is one of the most beautiful I have found.
With the story over, I suppose I should pose a question so we can talk, huh? Well. What are your thoughts on this poem? What stands out to you? I've told you what stood out to me, now it's your turn. Let's talk.
I'll tag some people to get us talking
Spoiler! :
Gender:
Points: 1883
Reviews: 806