Some incredible poets: Dylan Thomas, Octavio Paz, Gerard Manley Hopkins

Dylan Thomas is one of the most powerful wordsmiths I have ever read. His language is absolutely, stunningly gorgeous. Here is my favorite example, the pretty well-known "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 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.

Octavio Paz is a Mexican poet and also an awesome writer. He mainly works in Spanish, but here is one of his simpler poems I've translated. It's called "Dos Cuerpos," or "Two Bodies"

Two bodies front to front
Are sometimes two waves
And the night is ocean.

Two bodies front to front
Are sometimes two stones
And the night desert.

Two bodies front to front
Are sometimes roots
In the night entwined.

Two bodies front to front
Are sometimes knives
And the night thunder.

Two bodies front to front
Are two stars that fall
In an empty sky.


Lastly, Gerard Manley Hopkins was one of the first writers of modernist poetry; he never published his work, and it was only published posthumously after the modernist movement had begun. His use of language, rhythm, and imagery are incredible, and his final line is a ridiculously poignant depiction of the effects of God's presence in the human life.

“The Windhover”

to Christ our Lord

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin , dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing ,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend : the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.