For December, Something Different

This season was marked by time spent with so many artists and artisans: some colleagues, some customers, some to whom I am customer, those who are friends new and old, and those who helped me with my own plans for Balbec and generally inspired me. For all of their extraordinary work and generous spirits, this poem by Dylan Thomas.  Below is a picture of a farm at the end of my road. It isn't his Wales, but I love it just the same.

 Happy New Year Everyone! 


A Winter Morning in Hunterdon County, NJ 


In My Craft Or Sullen Art

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.

~Dylan Thomas

1 comment

  • Such pretty words.
    Such pretty sentiment.


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