Showing posts with label dylan thomas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dylan thomas. Show all posts

Friday, 29 May 2026

After - Poetic Inter-textuality


Poems inspired by other poems typically have the epigraph ‘after’ to acknowledge the influence. Here I am excluding ekphrastic poetry, that based on works of plastic art, as that’s a whole other thing and another essay, even if these too use the word after in their epigraphs.  

It seems to me that the point is to innovate and write something very different from the poem that has inspired you.. After poems are something many poets write both as part of learning the craft and engaging with poetry more widely. There may be occasions to play with the reader, to write a poem as in-joke or puzzle, a tease, although in this case an end note away from the poem page in a collection would suffice as credit to the originating author whilst retaining the mystery of the poem. There is after all, nothing new under the sun, but closely copying someone else’s work will bring trouble. If you want to be totally safe, choose a long dead poet with out of copyright work.

 

After poems are everywhere. Pick up any contemporary collection and the chances are you’ll find one. So what then is the purpose and intention of such writing? There are many different approaches or combination of approaches being adopted and it helps perhaps to try to sort and comment on some of these. But one fundamental question to consider as we go along is, why? Why do you need to do this? Does it help you to write your best poem? If it hinders you, then perhaps you might be best finding another way of working.

 

 

1.     Engaging with the canon

It is necessary to recognise that taking on others’ poems, canonical or not, brings with it the baggage of the earlier poem. For example, just purely in terms of subject matter, if you want to write a poem about a nightingale, it’s as well to have Keats in view, so you know what you are up against in the reader’s mind and the expectations they will bring to it. Ditto daffodils and Wordsworth, or death and the villanelle and Dylan Thomas, and so on. 

 

Take this poem of mine:

 

Berkeley Square planes[i]

 

I don’t believe nightingales sang here

and I need something solid in this

sticky shade, 

 

not full-throated ease and plaintive anthems 

fading far away, dissolving 

and making me quite forget.

 

Give me mottled trunks, flaking only to save us 

from soot, and branches baubled 

in celebration; 

 

our rescue from the smog, they’re banishers 

of the pea souper, 

rebuffers of lung burn and cough, 

 

visions more dappled and magnificent 

than any waking dream.

 

 

Here I’m punning on the wartime song about nightingales singing in Berkeley Square, as well as using some elements of Keats’ ‘Ode to a Nightingale,’ but the poem isn’t really about nightingales or Keats’ writing about them. It’s about the trees, and the birds are there for poetic context and associative language. So it’s not an after poem per se, but one that uses elements of the canon that are so well known that there was, in my view, no need to reference or credit them. 

 


I hope in this poem that I selected some things the reader is likely to know, or be able to find easily. If the source poem that you are writing after it’s too obscure, is there much point in writing it, as hardly anyone will get it? Similarly an after poem that just gives the originating poet’s name is unhelpful to the reader without a deep knowledge of that particular poet’s oeuvre. Often I’m left scratching my head as to which particular poem (and sometimes which poet) is being referenced. Why not throw me a lifeline? Why assume I know, or indeed care? An end note should do it, but bear in mind that first and foremost, I’m there to engage with the poem you have written.

 

It’s probably unwise to assume your reader will trouble themselves to look up anything at all. Why should they need to? Shouldn’t your poem be sufficient unto itself? Again this is part of the big why question with these kinds of approaches. And while we are on this point, do avoid too much intellectual showing off. No-one likes or is impressed by this. It’s probably better to wear your learning modestly, unless you are arrogant enough to be writing solely for the very few people in your readership who might be equipped with the knowledge to follow your obscure references. In which case good luck, and not having the time for such goose chasing, I’m off. 

 


2.     Varying response types 

These might be anywhere along the spectrum from praising the source poet, to them making you so incensed to need to challenge them. Friend, A.F. Harrold once read out a poem at an open mic I was attending that had me doing just that. I’m afraid I can’t recall the title of his poem, but its contents had something to do with rewriting Genesis, having Adam sleeping under hedges in Reading and the like. I was stirred, as Eve didn’t appear in his poem at all. So in response I penned this:

Stolen Fruit[ii]

 

For a few hours I knew infinitely 

more than you; my eyes were open wide

and I’d found out all there was. I could see

that this was perfect and beautiful,

while all you saw was a place called garden

and you couldn’t even name the flowers.

For those short hours I tripped about,

happy for the first time, happy the word 

I made for it. But as I slept contented

beneath passion fruit, clematis and vines,

you stole the cool plums from my palms and bit 

through their bruises into gold, yielding flesh.

Your sons have been raiding ice boxes ever since,

always sorry and thinking they know best. 

 

Not only am I responding to Harrold, but I’m rewriting and adding to the Bible and taking a side swipe at William Carlos Williams. Some arrogance, you might say, but it’s all in a day’s work for the after poet and I have had audiences cheer this one.

 

Talking back and other ways of interacting the poetry canon are well worked approaches and knowingly done. Carol Ann Duffy commissioned a whole anthology[iii] on this, which is worth your while taking a look at.  A poem as dialogue or in conversation with an earlier poet/poem should be just that, and engagement with the subject matter, terms of expression and so on. Mimicry does not a conversation make any more than some people’s habit of repeating what you just said back to you - mirror talking - is having a meaningful exchange. Find a way of talking back and discovering new meanings.

 

Take for example this short poem:

 

Ophelia[iv]

 

By the time she really died

there were no flowers left, no pansies

fennel or rue, no violets, no daisies,

no-one remembered rosemary.

 

Her Sisters laid her bird body 

on grey chapel marble, surrounded

her with stag’s horn and moss,

with ceps, morels, ink caps.

 

Beneath was a slick of kelp

and bladderwrack, oarweed

and dulse, her salty slipway

to river’s mouth and the tide.

 

Here I have taken on the mighty Bard writing a longer life for poor Ophelia, even if she did end up in a nunnery with flowerless plants as tribute. This is a well-used feminist approach and it subverts and reinterprets Shakespeare’s narrative of her demise. 

 

 


Going somewhere else quite other from the starting point of someone else’s poem is a way of exploring other angles and possibilities in the source work. For example, this poem prompted by Wordsworth’s ‘Resolution and Independence’ (or in his earlier version, ‘The Leech Gatherer’) concerns itself with medicine, illness and sex:

 

The Sanguine Leech[v]

I wait for you in the peat-coloured stream

under a rusted stone.

 

I wait for you to want my juicy kiss,

for you to want me to suck hard.

 

For now one of my serrated mouths

is fixed firmly on petrified blood.

 

As the moon waxes

I’ll swim in hungry circles.

 

Patient am I and you are grateful

that I stuck around, suck around to stop

 

the clotting of your tiny veins, the day

they thought you’d closed your eyes for good.

 

 

 

3.     Engaging with the language

 

This can involve such things as engaging with the poet’s language and general style, and/or the language of a particular poem. Take this riff on Christina Rossetti’s ‘In the Deep Midwinter.’ The enjoyment that I hope readers derive from this comes from knowing Rossetti’s poem/much sung carol, and seeing what I have chosen to do with it.

 

      The barn swallow’s carol[vi]

 

      Families gather, but as you come to sing

by the child’s crib, I’m far off on the wing,

so long gone south-due-south into the Berg

wind, not hidden, torpid, not cold-air hung.

 

I don’t know of hoar frost, or snow on snow

on snow. Earth-iron, water-stone

are mysteries. Bleak ice makes no moan.

 

I’m swallow, what gifts can I bring? Fat gnats,

thick mud, new nets from fynbos or Cape Flats.

Midwinter/mid-summer, all I can share:

the dip-dive, the soar-swoop in fresh-fly air.

 

Carol Ann Duffy liked it enough to include in her selection of Christmas poems for Candlestick Press in 2012. That’s sufficient endorsement for me.

 

 

 

4.     Using the actual language

Less obviously after poems, one might argue that poetic techniques that use the literal elements of others’ poems can fall into consideration here. There are many such:


      


Centos have been around for over 1,600 years. They are poems deriving entirely from others’ texts: from many poems by one poet, or poems by several poets. It’s probably best to use no less than half a line and no more than a full line in your stitching and watch out for copyright issues. Centos are an interesting intellectual exercise, but being overly faithful and denying yourself the ability to edit, alter and improve, do they add up to anything more than that? I once really upset someone in a workshop context, by daring to raise this point. Belated apologies to that person, although I haven’t much changed my mind.

 


Titles are copyright free to my understanding. Patchworking a number of them together to make a new poem is a ludic exercise that hopefully yields something of meaning greater than the sum of its parts. It is both a form of cento and a found poem that I have had fun with, although crediting every volume is unnecessary. Take this one, which is full of titles from books in the library at Ty Newydd (the National Writers Centre in Wales) with very little, if any, infilling:

Paraphernalia, a found poem[vii]

 

Tell me this is normal: eating strawberries

n the necropolis where Angolans are playing football,

morning in the burned house, evening brings everything back,

the unreliable mushrooms, the watermelon man,

telling each other it is possible.

 

Aubergine is a gravid woman, a two-part invention

home and away, the miracle diet, what she dis

an what she said, her name like the hours self-made.

And here in the menagerie: birds through a ceiling 

of alabaster, ghosts at cockcrow, horses where answers

would have been like something flying backwards.

 

Can you hear, bird, the weather coming?

The banking thing, the back and forth of it,

the way the money goes, you again learning how to fall,

how to disappear, take me with you.

 

 

Using opening, closing or any intermediate lines as your opening, closing or any line is a minimalist approach to after-ing. Lines used are often in italics and credit given in end notes. Or you could start with such a line to write your poem and then delete the starting line. These are all well-worn workshop techniques to getting the poetry flowing.

 

 

Golden Shovels were invented by American poet, Terence Hayes just over fifteen years ago. The last word of each line when read down the page forms a second poem, the pre-existing poem being written into. In his 2010 collection Lighthead, Hayes’ poem ‘The Golden Shovel,’ uses Gwendolyn Brooks’ ‘We Real Cool,’ for example. They are a kind of cento, but it seems to me there is much more space for invention in writing them, especially writing towards that end word in each line. I’ve seen purists say they are only for tribute to Brooks, but why not go wider? Dylan Thomas is out of copyright now. Hold my non-alcoholic beer.  

 

In lieu of exploring Thomas, here’s a recent unpublished one of mine:

 

Jardinage

A Golden Shovel based on a line from Gwedolyn Brook’s ‘Jessie Mitchell’s Mother’

 

I’ve always referred to the garden as mine,

though I wasn’t the one who put most of the work in.

You deserve more credit, fact,

for digging, pruning, composting and clearing because

you’ve more strength and energy than I

will ever have, or this is how it was

till the ladder broke you, my lovely,

and for a year the plot had

free reign. Odd, that meant more flowers.

 

 

Erasure poems too are a kind of after, where a pre-existing poem has parts blacked out and sampled down to create a new poem from its text. Again, these are a lot of fun to do and there is a choice to be made as to how to present them on the page – in the original form with blocks of black ink, which have the effect of isolating the remaining words and drawing much attention to them, or rewriting the remainder as a more concise poem. I have seen both, and to avoid clunkiness must say I prefer the latter. 

 


I’m sure there are more approaches and additional considerations to after-ing than I have sketched here, but hopefully these are plenty to be getting on with. Wishing you many happy ever afters.

 

 



 

Article consulted in preparing this essay:

 

Helena Nelson, ‘What are poets really after?’ The Friday Poem, 20.7.2023. (www.thefriadypoem/what-are-poets-really-after/ retrieved 12 August 2025.

 

Photographs from Namibia, November 2025 (my copyright).

 

Endnotes



[i] Kate Noakes, Goldhawk Road (Two Rivers Press, Reading, 2023).

[ii] Kate Noakes, Ocean to Interior (Might Erudite, London, 2007).

[iii] Carol Ann Duffy (ed), Answering Back:Living Poets Reply to Poetry of the Past (Picador, London, 2008).

[iv] Kate Noakes, Ocean to Interior (Might Erudite, London, 2007).

[v] Kate Noakes, Ocean to Interior (Might Erudite, London, 2007).

[vi] Kate Noakes, Cape Town (Eyewear Publishing, London, 2012).

[vii] Kate Noakes, Cape Town (Eyewear Publishing, London, 2012).

Wednesday, 17 May 2023

Hidden London - Looking for Dylan


The 14th of May annually is Dylan Thomas day. It's not his birthday. It's not his death day. It's the date Under Milk Wood was first read on stage in New York. And why not commemorate that? Feeling anti-social this year, I decided to make my own little pilgrimage to somewhere very much off the beaten track of all things Dylan. No boat house in Laugharne. No Wheatsheaf in Fitzrovia. I look myself down to the river not far from home. 

Dylan and his family lived at 13, Hammersmith Terrace in the winter of 1941-42 and on into the spring of 1942.  It's a five storey Georgian terraced house that backs directly onto a famous stretch of the Thames. Lots of artists have lived around there over the years (Eric Ravillious, Emery Walker, A.P. Herbert who owned number 13 and invited the Thomases to stay, and William Morris had his press very nearby). 

Next door at number 12, can this be conicidence to his choice of studio/bedsit? was apparently the birthplace of his wife, Caitlin MacNamara. 

I look up at the typical London brick and wonder what Dylan got up to in Hammersmith. His carefully collated Collected Letters helpfully supplies some answers from the few he wrote from this address. He was writing, but only in the time left to him after his work for a film company producing short films for the Ministry of Information.

Dylan hated London at this point where 'even the sun's grey... the grey gets in your eyes so that a bit of green nearly blinds you and the thought of the sea makes you giddy as you cross the road like a bloody beetle,' and his colleagues odious 'straw men, sponge and vanity boys, walking sacks full of solid vinegar and pride, all the menagerie of a world very rightly at war with itself (And even now the ink is spitting.)' (May 1942) 

And he hated his poverty: 'You don't know, I suppose, anyone with any furniture stored in London and who would want to give it to a good home? The only things I have are a deckchair with a hole in it, half a dozen books, a few toys and an old iron. These would not fill even a mouse's home. It is very good sometimes to have nothing; I want society, not me, to have places to sit in and beds to lie in; and who wants a hatstand of his very own? But sometimes on rainy, nostalgic Sunday afternoons, after eating the week's meat, it would, however cowardly, whatever a blanketing of responsibility and conscience, be good to sprawl back on one's own bourgeois chair, bought slippers on one's trotters.' (May 1942)

Although writing such as this has always to be read realising his teasing use of hyperbole for dramatic effect. So there you have it. He was miserable and fed up and often on the move. Sounds very much like typical Dylan-times. I hope none of this rubs off on me this week as I am rather buoyant and pretty happy.



Further reading

Paul Ferris, Dylan Thomas: The Collected Letters (London: J.M.Dent, 1985)

Sunday, 28 December 2014

Dylan Thomas - One last post for 2014

I spent the early part of the year re-reading and thinking about Dylan Thomas. Things trailed off the nearer we came to his centenary in October, I don't know why. I was sort-of-not-quite-then-not going to be involved in a production of Under Milk Wood, so perhaps I went into a bit of a sulk, or perhaps I just didn't want to compete with the rest of the media for attention, who after all reads my little blog? But it's Christmas time and, of course, how can we forget -  Mrs Prothero and the Firemen.

Dylan's A Child's Christmas in Wales is still as popular as ever, lovely new editions are published regularly, variously illustrated for both children and adult consumption. Mine is somewhere, but not here in Paris, so this post is from memory.

If you have never read it (or failed to hear Cerys Matthews reading it on the radio on Christmas Eve), do. It's not as corny as you might think and is packed with Dylan wickedness. It's heart warming and will make you laugh.

When I was a child I always fancied being an arctic explorer from Mumbles, or one of the boys snowballing cats in the back garden, putting rocks in the snowballs first (I hate cats, but that's another post), or Mrs Prothero's sister entirely un-phased by the fire, who descends the stairs and asks the firemen if they would like something to read.

Now there's a woman with the right priorities. Happy Christmas/New Year/Whatever. Opens new book and starts.

Friday, 6 June 2014

Dylan Thomas - Under Milk Wood

Being away from the UK and unable to watch TV or go to the theatre, I have , of course, missed all the new versions of Dylan's most well known work, but I have heard it on the radio, seen it in the theatre twice, including Guy Masterson's brilliant one man version. Unperturbed, I re-read the play on the train last week, keeping the townscape of Laugharne firmly in my mind's eye..

What struck me (again) this time was how much fun the bad characters are having and if I had to be any of them then it is surely the lascivious women: Mrs Dai Bread Two, Polly Garter and Lily Smalls. No Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard's 'polar sheets' for me, not the unfulfilled love of Myfanwy Price. No, I'd much rather be 'gysied to kill in a silky scarlet petticoat,' thinking of my love in the morning mirror and having a good time in the hedgerows by night. In other words, being no better than I am.

This is, I suppose, what Dylan intends, that we enjoy these characters' love of life. There are plenty of men like this too - think of Captain Cat longing for Rosie Probert once more, Nogood Boyo and Mr. Waldo. As a result we laugh at the prudish and well-behaved, living lives of conformity and ultimately frustration and, well,  bugger all - at least I do.

Oh, and my re-reading gave me a poem too - all credit to Dylan - enjoy!


How I’ll wait for you

By pitch, my tanned thighs
tensed for your touch
velvet in the dark,

by star in a silk slip
crushed and rippling
on the pink breeze,

by streetlight as I
glow my lips
and nipples with gloss,

by crescent moon, dressed
only in a bracelet
a snake with its silver tail

in its silver mouth
or, in nothing at all
save a splash of scent.

Saturday, 1 March 2014

Dylan Thomas for St. David’s Day


Actually, this poem has nothing whatsoever to do with St. David’s Day other than the fact that I am writing about it today. So whilst the nation is busy sporting daffodils, anthem singing, dressing up in national costume of dodgy provenance and being rightly proud of itself (Wales 27, France 6, just to remind you), I am sitting in rainy Paris, reading.

The force that through the green fuse (pg. 13) deals with the big issues life, love and death which haunt most of Dylan’s poetry. The force, and yes, you can think Star Wars here if it helps, seems to be the notion of universal energy. It is both life giving and life taking as the poem is packed with these opposites from the natural and human world, every stanza has this.

The poem starts with a repetition of the title in the opening line. It’s striking these days how archaic this structure seems to be. It’s unnecessarily repetitive and something most current poets try to avoid. That said, what of this mysterious ‘green fuse’? Young spark I think we might say more clunkily, but it’s arresting and functions to call the readers’ attention from the start – you are going to have to read this one carefully.

As well as the pattern of opposites, the poem focuses on the poet being silenced – the word ‘dumb’ is used in each stanza, but, of course, this is an irony as the poem is anything but silent on its topic. Perhaps it is better to think of this less as silence and more as an inability to articulate fully.

Key words, because they are repeated, are water, blood, love, hang, force, crooked and wind; the basic elements of life and death, if you will. This writing is again in contrast to contemporary practice where we tend to eschew non-patterned word repetition, but we are forgiving readers and can luxuriate otherwise in the imagery.

The antecedent poem that this brings to mind, and which Dylan acknowledged, is Blake’s Sick Rose, with its invisible worm, both of which Dylan makes crooked here:

O rose, thou art sick:
The invisible worm
That flies in the night
In the howling storm

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy.
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

I once went to a lecture by Germane Greer, who talked for over an hour about these eight lines of Blake’s, so Good Luck trying to explain that in one short blog post. Dydd Gwyl Dewi hapus.


 

Friday, 7 February 2014

Dylan Thomas On Welsh Poets and Artists

I am using my 1983 Everyman edition of Quite early One Morning (pg. 139-154), the compilation of radio scripts, for this post. There are two essays: Welsh Poets, and Wales and the Artist. In the first Dylan looks quickly at Henry Vaughan, Edward Thomas, W. H. Davies, Idris Davies, Glyn Jones and Alun Lewis, a poem or two from each and makes some pithy comments. He introduces these half dozen meritorious Welsh poets (all men) by distancing himself from his contemporaries, busy beating themselves up about not writing in Welsh; 'It is the poetry, written in the language that is most natural to the poet that counts, not his continent, country, island, race, class or political persuasion.'

He skips from Vaughan (17th century) straight into the century with Edward Thomas, killed in 1917, the great lover of the countryside. The poem Dylan chooses echoes with a death knell ('the bell on the buoy in the bay') and the tender reflection Dylan ascribes to his work. There is a classic Dylan list here worthy of reading.

Dylan describes W. H. Davies (the Super Tramp, you may know him as) as a unique observer of the 'tiniest reflections on the natural world.' He offers The Inquest and The Bust, like all the other poem choices without further comment. It is up to the reader to form her own view.

Idris Davies work is a contrast to the truth and beauty of the rural idyll. Dylan describes how he and others in South Wales wrote of 'the lies and ugliness of the unnatural system of society under which they worked,' or in the Depression 'under which they were not allowed to work,' in 'ragged and angry rhythms' with Davies shaping this violence into real poems.

Cue Dylan list number two. These two rhetorical devices make for an interesting contrast one with the other and sum up theWales of Dylan's lifetime. It is ironic that so little has changed in the ensuing seventy or eighty years.

Glyn Davies' experiments using Welsh Bardic forms in English only succeed for Dylan in 'warping, crabbing and obscuring the natural genius of the English language,' so he choses a sub-Lawrencian poem that avoids  awkward sound and syntax.

Finally Dylan presents Alun Lewis, describing him as 'humble before his own confessions, awed before the eternal confession of love' and for whom 'in war, the poetry is the pity.' Lewis was killed in an accident in India in 1944.

By contrast to the praise heaped on the poets of Wales, Dylan unleashes his vitriol on its artists in the next essay. In a wonderful piece of (surely) self-deprecation, he bemoans the Welsh in London, who try to lose their accents and end up sounding like their mouths contain the Elgin marbles, and who set up in exile a 'government of dispossessed intellectuals, dispossessed not only of their country, but their intellects.' Ouch!

On the other hand, and to be fair, Dylan rounds on the stay at home Welsh artists too, too many of whom 'spend too much time talking about the position of artists in Wales.' This short piece ends with a much quoted aphorism: 'There is only one position for an artist anywhere, and that is upright.' Is there a tongue in his cheek here? I think so.

Wednesday, 22 January 2014

Dylan Thomas - On War

Among those Killed in a Dawn Raid was a Man Aged a Hundred: longer than a newspaper headline, this poem (pg. 112) has a title that tells you everything you need to know of the subject matter before you even start reading it. It is a deliberate shock tactic in its bluntness and the reader's eyes move down to see how Dylan is going to handle the matter.

Well, there is no sweetness in the first two lines which are matter of fact and end with 'he died.' Then the poem explores the horrifying sight of the old man knocked off his feet in the street by focusing on the broken aspects of the physical scene: 'the burst pavement stone,' 'the slaughtered floor,' and the man's broken body: 'the craters of his eyes.'

The sonnet, for that is what is is, continues with imperatives: 'Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun' and 'Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.' It cries  ('O') a wish that the man is spared from a pauper's grave and ends with a repletion of morning and on an uplifting note that humanity will continue: 'A hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.' A wonderful and striking image that.

One of the finest poems written about the war? Probably.