Under Milk Wood.

Motivation. It’s a thing I’ve been lacking for months now, but that doesn’t mean I should just give up, now is it? So I decided to put some effort in. Looking for things that would make a tad more productive, inspired or motivated. AND GUESS WHAT FAM. I’ve bloody found it. Get yourself a cup of tea – I know I’m currently enjoying Yorkshire Tea – and just drown yourself in the wonderful world that is ‘Under Milk Wood’

This blogpost is of great significance to both me, my interests and my blog in general. So pay attention my good my countrymen (Well not really, but I just liked this Shakespeare reference), this is going to be quite a read. Okay. Stop Marc. Getting cocky and overconfident. Fuck sake.

I love poetry. I don’t know, but it just gives me a good feeling. Reading it. Writing it. Comparing it. Sharing it. Discussing it. It’s just awesome and I think it’s pretty great that we can play with worlds like poets do. It’s so creative and inspiring in my opinion.

Obviously there are many poets on this world, both in history as contemporary poets. But one of my favourites right now – and for the past few months – is the Welsh poet (Obviously it’s got to be Welsh, I’m a bit obsessed with Welshmen at the moment) Dylan Thomas.

I love the poems by Dylan Thomas, but there is one particular work from Thomas that has got me inspired and motivated. ‘Under Milk Wood’ is a radio drama from 1954, commissioned by the BBC and written by Dylan Thomas. I’m really obsessed with it. The first I heard about it was rather unconventional. I heard it on the documentary of Swansea City FC; From Jack to a King.

My blog is called after the little town in Under Milk Wood, Llareggub. This is Bugger All spelled backwards and there is where my inspiration comes from. Today I just wanted to share with you the beginning of that radio drama, let the words flow from your tongue and feel how they enter the world.

To begin at the beginning:
It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters’-and- rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows’ weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now. 

Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrogered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wet-nosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs. 

You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing.
Only your eyes are unclosed to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep.
And you alone can hear the invisible starfall, the darkest-before- dawn minutely dewgrazed stir of the black, dab-filled sea where the Arethusa, the Curlew and the Skylark, Zanzibar, Rhiannon, the Rover, the Cormorant, and the Star of Wales tilt and ride. 

Listen. It is night moving in the streets, the processional salt slow musical wind in Coronation Street and Cockle Row, it is the grass growing on Llareggub Hill, dewfall, starfall, the sleep of birds in Milk Wood. 

Listen. It is night in the chill, squat chapel, hymning in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black, butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats, suckling mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah; night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino; in Ocky Milkman’s lofts like a mouse with gloves; in Dai Bread’s bakery flying like black flour. It is to-night in Donkey Street, trotting silent, with seaweed on its hooves, along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket, harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand, china dog and rosy tin teacaddy. It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies. 

Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding though the Coronation cherry trees; going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms.
Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
Come closer now. 

Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see in the blinded bedrooms, the combs and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing, dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams. 

From where you are, you can hear their dreams.

You can listen to this part of Under Milk Wood on Youtube:

This really inspires me everyday. I don’t exactly know why, but it does. I hope it gives you some inspiration too. Please let me know what you think of his work!


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