Twenty Four Years – Dylan Thomas

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.

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Clown In The Moon – Dylan Thomas

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

Being But Men – Dylan Thomas

Being but men, we walked into the trees
Afraid, letting our syllables be soft
For fear of waking the rooks,
For fear of coming
Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries.

If we were children we might climb,
Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,
And, after the soft ascent,
Thrust out our heads above the branches
To wonder at the unfailing stars.

Out of confusion, as the way is,
And the wonder, that man knows,
Out of the chaos would come bliss.

That, then, is loveliness, we said,
Children in wonder watching the stars,
Is the aim and the end.

Being but men, we walked into the trees.

Unluckily for a Death – Dylan Thomas 

Unluckily for a death

Waiting with phoenix under

The pyre yet to be lighted of my sins and days,

And for the woman in shades

Saint carved and sensual among the scudding

Dead and gone, dedicate forever to my self

Though the brawl of the kiss has not occurred

On the clay cold mouth, on the fire

Branded forehead, that could bind

Her constant, nor the winds of love broken wide

To the wind the choir and cloister

Of the wintry nunnery of the order of lust

Beneath my life, that sighs for the seducer’s coming

In the sun strokes of summer,
Loving on this sea banged guilt

My holy lucky body

Under the cloud against love is caught and held and kissed

In the mill of the midst

Of the descending day, the dark our folly,

Cut to the still star in the order of the quick

But blessed by such heroic hosts in your every

Inch and glance that the wound

Is certain god, and the ceremony of souls

Is celebrated there, and communion between suns.

Never shall my self chant

About the saint in shades while the endless breviary

Turns of your prayed flesh, nor shall I shoo the bird below me:

The death biding two lie lonely.
I see the tigron in tears

In the androgynous dark,

His striped and noon maned tribe striding to holocaust,

The she mules bear their minotaurs,

The duck-billed platypus broody in a milk of birds.

I see the wanting nun saint carved in a garb

Of shades, symbol of desire beyond my hours

And guilts, great crotch and giant

Continence. I see the unfired phoenix, herald

And heaven crier, arrow now of aspiring

And the renouncing of islands.

All love but for the full assemblage in flower

Of the living flesh is monstrous or immortal,

And the grave its daughters.
Love, my fate got luckily,

Teaches with no telling

That the phoenix’ bid for heaven and the desire after

Death in the carved nunnery

Both shall fail if I bow not to your blessing

Nor walk in the cool of your mortal garden

With immortality at my side like Christ the sky.

This I know from the native

Tongue of your translating eyes. The young stars told me,

Hurling into beginning like Christ the child.

Lucklessly she must lie patient

And the vaulting bird be still. O my true love, hold me.

In your every inch and glance is the globe of genesis spun,

And the living earth your sons. 

Twenty Four Years – Dylan Thomas

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.

(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)

In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor

Sewing a shroud for a journey

By the light of the meat-eating sun.

Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,

With my red veins full of money,

In the final direction of the elementary town

I advance as long as forever is. 

How Shall My Animal – Dylan Thomas

How shall my animal

Whose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull,

Vessel of abscesses and exultation’s shell,

Endure burial under the spelling wall,

The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face,

Who should be furious,

Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus,

Roaring, crawling, quarrel

With the outside weathers,

The natural circle of the discovered skies

Draw down to its weird eyes?
How shall it magnetize,

Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blaze

That melts the lionhead’s heel and horseshoe of the heart

A brute land in the cool top of the country days

To trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile,

Love and labour and kill

In quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sprout

The black, burst sea rejoice,

The bowels turn turtle,

Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particle

The parched and raging voice?
Fishermen of mermen

Creep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pin

With bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein,

Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-bound

Curl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone,

Trace out a tentacle,

Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and weed

To clasp my fury on ground

And clap its great blood down;

Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas

Or poise the day on a horn.
Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn,

Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frost

Clack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars drops

With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth

Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,

Clips short the gesture of breath.

Die in red feathers when the flying heaven’s cut,

And roll with the knocked earth:

Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.

You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,

And dug your grave in my breast. 

Holy Spring – Dylan Thomas

O

Out of a bed of love

When that immortal hospital made one more moove to soothe

The curless counted body,

And ruin and his causes

Over the barbed and shooting sea assumed an army

And swept into our wounds and houses,

I climb to greet the war in which I have no heart but only

That one dark I owe my light,

Call for confessor and wiser mirror but there is none

To glow after the god stoning night

And I am struck as lonely as a holy marker by the sun
No

Praise that the spring time is all

Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful

Out of the woebegone pyre

And the multitude’s sultry tear turns cool on the weeping wall,

My arising prodgidal

Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire,

But blessed be hail and upheaval

That uncalm still it is sure alone to stand and sing

Alone in the husk of man’s home

And the mother and toppling house of the holy spring,

If only for a last time.