I lived from 1913-2000.
I was from Wales, and am in the English category.
Ronald Stuart Thomas was born in Cardiff in 1913, the son of a sea captain. He was educated at University College of North Wales and later undertook theological training at St Michael's College in Cardiff. He was ordained as an Anglican priest in 1936.
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During his time as a rector he began to write poetry and verse. His writing career continued for fifty years during which time he produced twenty volumes of poetry and was nominated for a Nobel prize and awarded the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry. Whilst religion, understandably, was one of the major themes of his work, he also wrote about nature and about Welsh history. Thomas was fervent and often outspoken Welsh patriot and even wrote his autobiography Nab (Nobody - 1985) in Welsh.
Thomas enjoyed working in the countryside and spent his whole time as a clergyman working in rural parishes. He retired in 1978. His first wife Elsi, by whom he had a son, died in 1991 after 51 years of marriage. He later married his second wife, Betty, who was with him until his death. He died at the age of 87 n 25th September 2000.
Whilst still remembered for his Welsh republican views, it is for his religious poetry that he is still held in high regard. Of his work, he said:
"My chief aim is to make a poem . You make it for yourself firstly, and then if other people want to join in... then there we are." His Collected Poems was published in 1993 and is still available today.
Biography information:
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Modern Welsh Poetry
Popular poetry
Ah, you should see Cynddylan on a tractor.
Gone the old look that yoked him to the soil,
16 lines, 3 comments
It is a matter of a black cat
On a bare cliff top in March
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Too far for you to see
The fluke and foot-rot and the fat maggot
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I am a man now.
Pass your hand over my brow.
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There are places in Wales I don't go:
Reservoirs that are the subconcious
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There are nights that are so still
that I can hear the small owl
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It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
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Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension
Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws,
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Ah. Iago, my friend, whom the ignorant people thought
The last of your kind, since all the wealth you brought
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What is the Christmas without
snow? We need it
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