PUBLIC MARKS from tadeufilippini with tag Thomas

poet Dylan Thomas #25 on top 500 poets Poet's Page Poems Quotes Comments Stats E-Books Biography Videos Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Poems by Dylan Thomas : 85 / 100 « prev. poem next poem » There Was A Saviour - Poem by Dylan Thomas Autoplay next video There was a saviour Rarer than radium, Commoner than water, crueller than truth; Children kept from the sun Assembled at his tongue To hear the golden note turn in a groove, Prisoners of wishes locked their eyes In the jails and studies of his keyless smiles. The voice of children says From a lost wilderness There was calm to be done in his safe unrest, When hindering man hurt Man, animal, or bird We hid our fears in that murdering breath, Silence, silence to do, when earth grew loud, In lairs and asylums of the tremendous shout. There was glory to hear In the churches of his tears, Under his downy arm you sighed as he struck, O you who could not cry On to the ground when a man died Put a tear for joy in the unearthly flood And laid your cheek against a cloud-formed shell: Now in the dark there is only yourself and myself. Two proud, blacked brothers cry, Winter-locked side by side, To this inhospitable hollow year, O we who could not stir One lean sigh when we heard Greed on man beating near and fire neighbour But wailed and nested in the sky-blue wall Now break a giant tear for the little known fall, For the drooping of homes That did not nurse our bones, Brave deaths of only ones but never found, Now see, alone in us, Our own true strangers' dust Ride through the doors of our unentered house. Exiled in us we arouse the soft, Unclenched, armless, silk and rough love that breaks all rocks. Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas Dylan Thomas (27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953 / Swansea / Wales)

You did not come, And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb. Yet less for loss of your dear presence there Than that I thus found lacking in your make That high compassion which can overbear Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum, You did not come. You love not me, And love alone can lend you loyalty; -I know and knew it. But, unto the store Of human deeds divine in all but name, Was it not worth a little hour or more To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be You love not me. A Broken Appointment Thomas Hardy (1840-1928 / Dorchester / England)

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928 / Dorchester / England) Biography Poems Quotations Comments More Info Stats

Comments written by registered user tadziofilippini Send an IMDb private message to this author or view their message board profile. 1 comments in total Index | Alphabetical | Chronological | Useful The Raging Moon (1971) 2 out of 2 people found the following comment useful :- DylanThomas, 29 July 2006 10/10 The key to understand this great movie is the poem by Dylan Thomas: "in my craft or sullen art" "In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart. Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spindrift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art." Two works of art:the film and the poem tadzio filippini

Neste meu ofício ou arte Neste meu ofício ou arte Soturna e exercida à noite Quando só a lua ulula E os amantes se deitaram Com suas dores em seus braços, Eu trabalho à luz que canta Não por glória ou pão, a pompa Ou o comércio de encantos Sobre os palcos de marfim Mas pelo mero salário Do seu coração mais raro. Não para o orgulhoso à parte Da lua ululante escrevo Nestas páginas de espuma Nem aos mortos como torres Com seus rouxinóis e salmos Mas para os amantes, braços Cingindo as dores do tempo, Que não pagam, louvam, nem Sabem do meu ofício ou arte.

If I were tickled by the rub of love, A rooking girl who stole me for her side, Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string, If the red tickle as the cattle calve Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung, I would not fear the apple nor the flood Nor the bad blood of spring. Shall it be male or female? say the cells, And drop the plum like fire from the flesh. If I were tickled by the hatching hair, The winging bone that sprouted in the heels, The itch of man upon the baby's thigh, I would not fear the gallows nor the axe Nor the crossed sticks of war. Shall it be male or female? say the fingers That chalk the walls with green girls and their men. I would not fear the muscling-in of love If I were tickled by the urchin hungers Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve. I would not fear the devil in the loin Nor the outspoken grave. If I were tickled by the lovers' rub That wipes away nor crow's-foot nor the lock Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws, Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib Would leave me cold as butter for the flies, The sea of scums could drown me as it broke Dead on the sweethearts' toes. This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl And curling round the bud that forks her eye. An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone, And all the herrings smelling in the sea, I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail Wearing the quick away. And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles. The knobbly ape that swings along his sex From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle, Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six Feet in the rubbing dust. And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve? Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss? My Jack of Christ, born thorny on the tree? The words of death are dryer than his stiff, My wordy wounds are printed with your hair. I would be tickled by the rub that is: Man be my metaphor.

If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love If I were tickled by the rub of love, A rooking girl who stole me for her side, Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string, If the red tickle as the cattle calve Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung, I would not fear the apple nor the flood Nor the bad blood of spring. Shall it be male or female? say the cells, And drop the plum like fire from the flesh. If I were tickled by the hatching hair, The winging bone that sprouted in the heels, The itch of man upon the baby's thigh, I would not fear the gallows nor the axe Nor the crossed sticks of war. Shall it be male or female? say the fingers That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men. I would not fear the muscling-in of love If I were tickled by the urchin hungers Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve. I would not fear the devil in the loin Nor the outspoken grave. If I were tickled by the lovers' rub That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws, Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib Would leave me cold as butter for the flies The sea of scums could drown me as it broke Dead on the sweethearts' toes. This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl And curling round the bud that forks her eye. An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone, And all the herrings smelling in the sea, I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail Wearing the quick away. And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles. The knobbly ape that swings along his sex From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle, Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six Feet in the rubbing dust. And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve? Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss? My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree? The words of death are dryer than his stiff, My wordy wounds are printed with your hair. I would be tickled by the rub that is: Man be my metaphor. Dylan Thomas

La actriz Fabiana Gugli tuvo un desempeño impecable en "Terra em transito". Foto: LaVoz / Sebastián Salguero

07/08/2007 Mentiras sinceras me interessam Estréiam daqui a pouco em São Paulo Terra em Trânsito e Rainha Mentira. Espetáculos do Gerald Thomas. Quadros vivos de arte em carne e osso.

THE LIFE AND WORK OF DYLAN THOMAS

Quando Fabiana Gugli fica em frente às Torres Gêmeas de livros e a voz de Gerald enuncia que não há

Gerald Thomas volta aos palcos de São Paulo com duas das quatro peças que produziu no projeto "Asfaltaram a Terra". Serginho Groisman protagoniza "Brasas no Congelador" e Fabiana Gugli é a atriz de "Terra em Trânsito", ambas em cartaz no Sesc Ipiranga.

Cultura GLS: PANORAMA Asfaltaram a Terra 27/4/2006 Novo projeto de Gerald Thomas estréia em SP; Luiz Damasceno interpreta personagem feminino Por

Quando olho as minhas fotos de infância, agora em retrospecto, posso ver a safadeza da menina que já naquela época sabia ser atriz. Mas disso só fui ter consciência muito mais tarde.

O diretor de teatro Gerald Thomas sempre gerou polêmica com suas peças de vanguarda, construídas a partir de textos afiados, por vezes cínicos e críticos, e em muitas ocasiões acabou dividindo a crítica

A play about an opera singer in her dressing room—while she slowly goes mad, she tells her life story to a swan who lives back stage. She never stops feeding the animal “for foie gras purposes.” This play was first presented in Brazil—I worked with the puppeteer (Juliano Antunes) as the voice of the swan in the English version.

EARTH IN TRANCE December 14 - 30 at La MaMa

EARTH IN TRANCE December 14 - 30 at La MaMa La MaMa E.T.C. presents the New York Premiere of Brazil’s Dry Opera Theater Company in EARTH IN TRANCE. This highly stylized comedy is written and directed by avant garde legend Gerald Thomas. The original Brazilian cast, which includes Fabiana Gugli a