We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
Thomas may have played the part of the doomed poet, excused by his genius from following the conventions of decent behavior. But he was a genius: few are the twentieth-century English poets who wrote lines that not only were memorable but that also make the soul vibrate. Thomas was one of them.
Thomas was aware from an early age of his own genius. In his book of marvelously evocative stories about his childhood and adolescence, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog, published in 1940, when he was 26, Thomas recalls reciting a poem he had written 12 years earlier, in which the lines appear:
The frost has known, From scattered conclave by the few winds blown, That the lone genius in my roots, Bare down there in a jungle of fruits, Has planted a green year, for praise, in the heart of my upgrowing days.
"Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs"...my father would begin after a few beers and before or after playing Bob Dylan records. The weekends of my childhood were such. On my saying once to someone that my father was an alcoholic they inquired if he was abusive, I said, "yes, he read us poetry" endlessly which was the abusive part, lol.