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.
I particularly like this response as well:
This poem raises a subject, which most every poet or writer of any genre has considered: who is bound to read my words, and more importantly, who am I writing them about and for?
The sad truth, which Thomas so aptly captured through a syntax more romantically removed than anything so lovely, is that those whom we often write about, with the luck and affectionate grace to find another and graze with them so fervently, shall never read our works, nor ever appreciate them as much as they were meant to do if ever perused by chance. We ourselves who write of it recognise the inherent otherworldly importance capturing such a transient or permanent fixture it represents within all of the possibilities of feeling. This poem is driven by feeling, using appropriate logic in setting to merely justify its existence, the poet's own profound tone and passion, when he sounds so very devoid of a similar joy himself. Personally, I deeply empathise with this insightful piece.
-Jessica K. Bruhn, also found
here
