Poem – My World is Pyramid – Dylan Thomas

Half of the fellow father as he doubles 

His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk, 

Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles 

To-morrow’s diver in her horny milk, 

Bisected shadows on the thunder’s bone 

Bolt for the salt unborn. 
The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled 

Corrosive spring out of the iceberg’s crop, 

The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled 

The swing of milk was tufted in the pap, 

For half of love was planted in the lost, 

And the unplanted ghost. 
The broken halves are fellowed in a cripple, 

The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep, 

Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble 

Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep, 

And stake the sleepers in the savage grave 

That the vampire laugh. 
The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded 

The wild pigs’ wood, and slime upon the trees, 

Sucking the dark, kissed on the cyanide, 

And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs, 

Rotating halves are horning as they drill 

The arterial angel. 
What colour is glory? death’s feather? tremble 

The halves that pierce the pin’s point in the air, 

And prick the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble. 

The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw, 

The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew 

Blinds their cloud-tracking eye. 

My world is pyramid. The padded mummer 

Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt 

Incising summer. 

My Egypt’s armour buckling in its sheet, 

I scrape through resin to a starry bone 

And a blood parhelion. 
My world is cypress, and an English valley. 

I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards 

Red in an Austrian volley. 

I hear, through dead men’s drums, the riddled lads, 

Screwing their bowels from a hill of bones, 

Cry Eloi to the guns. 
My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan. 

The Arctic scut, and basin of the South, 

Drip on my dead house garden. 

Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth 

The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn 

Through the Atlantic corn. 
The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel 

On casting tides, are tangled in the shells, 

Bearding the unborn devil, 

Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels. 

The tongue’s of heaven gossip as I glide 

Binding my angel’s hood. 
Who blows death’s feather? What glory is colour? 

I blow the stammel feather in the vein. 

The loin is glory in a working pallor. 

My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn, 

The secret child, I sift about the sea 

Dry in the half-tracked thigh.