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.
Dylan Thomas
Dylan Thomas (born October 27, 1914, Swansea, Glamorgan [now in Swansea], Wales—died November 9, 1953, New York, New York, U.S.) Welsh poet and prose writer whose work is known for its comic exuberance, rhapsodic lilt, and pathos. His personal life, punctuated by reckless bouts of drinking, was notorious. Thomas spent his childhood in southwestern Wales. His father taught English at the Swansea grammar school, which in due course the boy attended. Because Dylan’s mother was a farmer’s daughter, he had a country home he could go to when on holiday. His poem “Fern Hill” (1946) describes its joys.