The Welsh poet Dylan Thomas was a childhood hero of mine.
I used to read him as an angsty teenager and admire his use of language as much as the tales of his drunken fuck-ups, like pissing in potted plants at readings during his tours in America or crashing his car in Charlie Chaplins tennis court. Style, I thought. This man knows how to party. And he also knows how to write. I am going to be exactly like him. This is the way to go through life, yes yes yes.
Since English is not my native language I unfortunately did not understand all to much of his poetry. I used to lie in my bed with a dictionary and try to translate the poems to find out what the hell was going on but the translations didn't make much sense either. Yet I felt that there was some extraordinary rhythm at work, some music created out of words that I thought very cool and impressive. To this day I can recite some lines out of my memory of this time:
Before I knocked and flesh let enter
with liquid hands tapped on the womb
I who was shapeless as the water
that shaped the Jordan near my home ...
Talk about being a nerd. So anyway I grew older and found other literary heros and even some that weren't literary. But Dylan Thomas stuck there, back in my mind as the first dude I discovered who seemed to have realized that some kick ass living and some kick ass writing should go hand in hand. I promised myself to someday visit his grave, to pay homage.
And then in 2013 I did just that. I jumped on a plane and flew to London. From there on I took a train via Swansea, Wales to Laugharne, on the south coast of Wales where Dylan Thomas lived, drank, raged, wrote some beautiful lines and is buried.
Arriving.
SOME AMAZING U.K. CAB!!!
Waiting for some train.
Still waiting for some train.
To Wales, my Dear, to Wales …
Whopeee, Swansea!
Better not swear on the train, asshole!
Getting close …
Getting closer …
OMG, there it is! Downtown Laugharne!
The Cemetery.
And finally, voila: Dylan Thomas’ Grave!!
We made it, Baby, we made it!!
His wife Caitlin Thomas is buried on the other side.
Just like with Jim Morrisons grave in Pere Lachaise, people like to party there.
Alright now calm down. Let’s visit the Boat House, where Dylan Thomas lived.
The heron Priested shore. Ya know:
“It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore”
- Dylan Thomas: Poem in October
The Writing Shed.
Inside the Writing Shed.
The Boat House, where Dylan Thomas lived with his family
Dylans Walk.
Uh, oh, you probably know what’s coming now …
There it is: the Castle!
I sat on this bench and farted real loud.
Birds and Boat.
“Cars before Coastline”. A hyperrealistic painting by Poeta che mi guidi, 2013.
Lunch. Tasted awesome.
That’s it, folks. Hope you enjoyed.
All these pictures were taken by the professional Poeta che mi guidi camera team in 2013.
Poeta che mi guidi does not believe in worrying yourself shitty over copyright issues. If you want for whatever reason to use/copy/link/rework any of these pictures for non-commercial use, feel free to do so.
If you are a cool dude/woman/whatever, shoot me a notice.
Thanks.