Thursday, November 12, 2020

Dear Dylan
My dad walked out of my life when I was ten years old, and over the next five decades, 
gave me a grand total of three gifts. 

The first was this book of poems by Dylan Thomas, and I'm still struggling to read it through. 

Dear Dylan, sir, I must confess
At first, your poems did not impress
In fact, your utter wordiness
Drove my poor head to distress.

The real reason, I soon came to see
Had almost naught to do with thee
But much more likely, chances be
With the one who gifted me.

My wandering dad was such a bum
Our relationship sure made me glum
So when this gift arrived from him
My disappointment did overcome.

But you, my friend, are not to blame
Your rhyming verse was never lame
And so if it is all the same
To you, I'd like to praise your name.

Your poems are among the best.
But of this fact I must attest
Some surely put me to the test
Their meanings I have not yet guessed.

But still I try. Won't let my dad
Lead me to doing something bad
Rejecting an artist I haven't had
Would be an act that makes me sad.

So dear Dylan, on this day
I ask you, sir, to have your way
With me and please, I well do pray,
Just tell me what you're trying to say.

* * * * *

A poet named Mary Jane, who is also my friend, invited me to write 
a poem a day for eight days in a row. Here I go!

And one more for good measure:

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