A Letter To My Aunt

A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry


To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
In T.S.E. and Ezra Pound.
Fie on you, aunt! I'll show you how
To elevate your middle brow,
And how to scale and see the sights
From modernist Parnassian heights.

First buy a hat, no Paris model
But one the Swiss wear when they yodel,
A bowler thing with one or two
Feathers to conceal the view;
And then in sandals walk the street
(All modern painters use their feet
For painting, on their canvas strips,
Their wives or mothers, minus hips).

Perhaps it would be best if you
Created something very new,
A dirty novel done in Erse
Or written backwards in Welsh verse,
Or paintings on the backs of vests,
Or Sanskrit psalms on lepers' chests.
But if this proved imposs-i-ble
Perhaps it would be just as well,
For you could then write what you please,
And modern verse is done with ease.

Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymes
With 'strumpet' in these troubled times,
And commas are the worst of crimes;
Few understand the works of Cummings,
And few James Joyce's mental slummings,
And few young Auden's coded chatter;
But then it is the few that matter.
Never be lucid, never state,
If you would be regarded great,
The simplest thought or sentiment,
(For thought, we know, is decadent);
Never omit such vital words
As belly, genitals and -----,
For these are things that play a part
(And what a part) in all good art.
Remember this: each rose is wormy,
And every lovely woman's germy;
Remember this: that love depends
On how the Gallic letter bends;
Remember, too, that life is hell
And even heaven has a smell
Of putrefying angels who
Make deadly whoopee in the blue.
These things remembered, what can stop
A poet going to the top?

A final word: before you start
The convulsions of your art,
Remove your brains, take out your heart;
Minus these curses, you can be
A genius like David G.

Take courage, aunt, and send your stuff
To Geoffrey Grigson with my luff,
And may I yet live to admire
How well your poems light the fire.

by Dylan Thomas

Comments (4)

Commentators have on the whole found this sonnet dull and repetetive, lacking in any metaphor which might enliven it. In the 16th. century to be on the wrong side of a religious divide could be a matter of life and death. Elizabeth herself was probably fairly tolerant, and could be pacified with a formula of words. But there were many religious fanatics who were ready to insist that 'He who is not with me is against me'. Being a Catholic was obviously dangerous, and being seen as a non-believer risked the threat of denunciation from all sides. Oxquarry Books
This curious sonnet treads once again the very thin line between arcane humour and outright blasphemy, which has already been seen in Sonnets 34 (Peter's denial of Christ) and 52 (the Beatitudes) , and it continues in 108, which has an irreverent parody of the 'Our Father'. Here the theme is that of the Holy Trinity and the poet's argument seems to be that his love is not idolatrous because it is a worship of the Holy Trinity, God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, which three he transmutes into fairness, kindness and truthfulness, all seen in his beloved. It is as if the poet is responding to an accusation, and defending himself against the charge of idolatrous worship which has been levelled against him. He uses the refutation that his worship of the beloved youth has the same character as the Christian worship of God in the Holy Trinity, and therefore it cannot be idolatrous. His love is not an idol, but a holy trinity of beauty, goodness and truth.
.........an amazingly beautiful write ★ Let not my love be call'd idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence; Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
Awesome I like this poem, check mine out