Poems List

There is always one right word; use it, despite its foul or merely ludicrous associations.
2

Why East Wind Chills

Why East Wind Chills

Why east wind chills and south wind cools
Shall not be known till windwell dries
And west's no longer drowned
In winds that bring the fruit and rind
Of many a hundred falls;
Why silk is soft and the stone wounds
The child shall question all his days,
Why night-time rain and the breast's blood
Both quench his thirst he'll have a black reply.


When cometh Jack Frost? the children ask.
Shall they clasp a comet in their fists?
Not till, from high and low, their dust
Sprinkles in children's eyes a long-last sleep
And dusk is crowded with the children's ghosts,
Shall a white answer echo from the rooftops.


All things are known: the stars' advice
Calls some content to travel with the winds,
Though what the stars ask as they round
Time upon time the towers of the skies
Is heard but little till the stars go out.
I hear content, and 'Be Content'
Ring like a handbell through the corridors,
And 'Know no answer,' and I know
No answer to the children's cry
Of echo's answer and the man of frost
And ghostly comets over the raised fists.
280

When, Like a Running Grave

When, Like a Running Grave

When, like a running grave, time tracks you down,
Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs,
Love in her gear is slowly through the house,
Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse,
Hauled to the dome,


Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age,
Deliver me who timid in my tribe,
Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap
Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape
Of the bone inch


Deliver me, my masters, head and heart,
Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin,
When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time
Drive children up like bruises to the thumb,
From maid and head,


For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove,
Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye,
I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice
May fail to fasten with a virgin o
In the straight grave,


Stride through Cadaver's country in my force,
My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone
Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime,
Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain
On fork and face.


Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool.
No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer
Descends, my masters, on the entered honour.
You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar
Tells the stick, 'fail.'


Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam,
The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather
Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever,
Not city tar and subway bored to foster
Man through macadam.


I dump the waxlights in your tower dome.
Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot
Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift,
Love's twilit nation and the skull of state,
Sir, is your doom.


Everything ends, the tower ending and,
(Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene,
Ball of the foot depending from the sun,
(Give, summer, over), the cemented skin,



The actions' end.

All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind
With whistler's cough contages, time on track
Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick,
Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take
The kissproof world.
423

We Lying By Seasand

We Lying By Seasand

We lying by seasand, watching yellow
And the grave sea, mock who deride
Who follow the red rivers, hollow
Alcove of words out of cicada shade,
For in this yellow grave of sand and sea
A calling for colour calls with the wind
That's grave and gay as grave and sea
Sleeping on either hand.
The lunar silences, the silent tide
Lapping the still canals, the dry tide-master
Ribbed between desert and water storm,
Should cure our ills of the water
With a one-coloured calm;
The heavenly music over the sand
Sounds with the grains as they hurry
Hiding the golden mountains and mansions
Of the grave, gay, seaside land.
Bound by a sovereign strip, we lie,
Watch yellow, wish for wind to blow away
The strata of the shore and drown red rock;
But wishes breed not, neither
Can we fend off rock arrival,
Lie watching yellow until the golden weather
Breaks, O my heart's blood, like a heart and hill.
615

When I Woke

When I Woke

When I woke, the town spoke.
Birds and clocks and cross bells
Dinned aside the coiling crowd,
The reptile profligates in a flame,
Spoilers and pokers of sleep,
The next-door sea dispelled
Frogs and satans and woman-luck,
While a man outside with a billhook,
Up to his head in his blood,
Cutting the morning off,
The warm-veined double of Time
And his scarving beard from a book,
Slashed down the last snake as though
It were a wand or subtle bough,
Its tongue peeled in the wrap of a leaf.


Every morning I make,
God in bed, good and bad,
After a water-face walk,
The death-stagged scatter-breath
Mammoth and sparrowfall
Everybody's earth.
Where birds ride like leaves and boats like ducks
I heard, this morning, waking,
Crossly out of the town noises
A voice in the erected air,
No prophet-progeny of mine,
Cry my sea town was breaking.
No Time, spoke the clocks, no God, rang the bells,
I drew the white sheet over the islands
And the coins on my eyelids sang like shells.
410

Vision and Prayer

Vision and Prayer

Who
Are you
Who is born

In the next room
So loud to my own
That I can hear the womb
Opening and the dark run


Over the ghost and the dropped son
Behind the wall thin as a wren's bone?
In the birth bloody room unknown


To the burn and turn of time
And the heart print of man
Bows no baptism
But dark alone


Blessing on
The wild
Child.
376

Twenty Four Years

Twenty Four Years

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.
427

To Others Than You

To Others Than You

Friend by enemy I call you out.
You with a bad coin in your socket,
You my friend there with a winning air
Who palmed the lie on me when you looked
Brassily at my shyest secret,
Enticed with twinkling bits of the eye
Till the sweet tooth of my love bit dry,
Rasped at last, and I stumbled and sucked,
Whom now I conjure to stand as thief
In the memory worked by mirrors,
With unforgettably smiling act,
Quickness of hand in the velvet glove
And my whole heart under your hammer,
Were once such a creature, so gay and frank
A desireless familiar
I never thought to utter or think
While you displaced a truth in the air,


That though I loved them for their faults
As much as for their good,
My friends were enemies on stilts
With their heads in a cunning cloud.
452

This Bread I Break

This Bread I Break

This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy.


Once in this time wine the summer blood
Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine,
Once in this bread
The oat was merry in the wind;
Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.


This flesh you break, this blood you let
Make desolation in the vein,
Were oat and grape
Born of the sensual root and sap;
My wine you drink, my bread you snap.
360

Then Was My Neophyte

Then Was My Neophyte

Then was my neophyte,
Child in white blood bent on its knees
Under the bell of rocks,
Ducked in the twelve, disciple seas
The winder of the water-clocks
Calls a green day and night.
My sea hermaphrodite,
Snail of man in His ship of fires
That burn the bitten decks,
Knew all His horrible desires
The climber of the water sex
Calls the green rock of light.


Who in these labyrinths,
This tidethread and the lane of scales,
Twine in a moon-blown shell,
Escapes to the flat cities' sails
Furled on the fishes' house and hell,
Nor falls to His green myths?
Stretch the salt photographs,
The landscape grief, love in His oils
Mirror from man to whale
That the green child see like a grail
Through veil and fin and fire and coil
Time on the canvas paths.


He films my vanity.
Shot in the wind, by tilted arcs,
Over the water come
Children from homes and children's parks
Who speak on a finger and thumb,
And the masked, headless boy.
His reels and mystery
The winder of the clockwise scene
Wound like a ball of lakes
Then threw on that tide-hoisted screen
Love's image till my heartbone breaks
By a dramatic sea.


Who kills my history?
The year-hedged row is lame with flint,
Blunt scythe and water blade.
'Who could snap off the shapeless print
From your to-morrow-treading shade
With oracle for eye?'
Time kills me terribly.
'Time shall not murder you,' He said,
'Nor the green nought be hurt;
Who could hack out your unsucked heart,
O green and unborn and undead?'
I saw time murder me.
224

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Identification and basic context

Dylan Marlais Thomas was a Welsh poet and writer. He is widely regarded as one of the most important poets of the 20th century, celebrated for his lyrical intensity, innovative use of language, and exploration of themes of life, death, love, and nature. He wrote primarily in English.

Childhood and education

Born and raised in Swansea, Wales, Thomas grew up in a predominantly Welsh-speaking household, though his father, a fluent Welsh speaker, also taught English literature. Thomas's formal education was somewhat limited, as he left school at sixteen. However, he was a voracious reader and possessed an exceptional natural talent for language and poetry from a young age. He was deeply influenced by the Bible, Welsh folklore, and the works of poets like Wilfred Owen and T.S. Eliot.

Literary trajectory

Thomas began writing poetry in his early teens, and his first collection, "18 Poems," was published in 1934, quickly earning him critical acclaim. This was followed by "20 Poems," "Deaths and Entrances" (1946), and "Collected Poems, 1934–1952" (1952). He also wrote short stories, radio plays (most famously "Under Milk Wood"), and film scripts. His career was marked by a prolific output of poetry, though his personal life was often turbulent, characterized by frequent travel and a struggle with alcoholism.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Thomas's major works include "Do not go gentle into that good night," "Fern Hill," "The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower," and "Death Shall Have No Dominion." His dominant themes include the life cycle, love, sexuality, death, the passage of time, childhood innocence, and the natural world, often imbued with a sense of Welsh landscape and myth. His style is characterized by its lush, sensuous imagery, powerful rhythms, and a unique, often ecstatic, use of language. He experimented with form, but often worked within or adapted traditional structures, infusing them with a modern sensibility. His poetic voice is often passionate, confessional, and incantatory, with a strong musicality that draws the reader in. His language is dense with metaphor, alliteration, and assonance, creating a rich and evocative texture.

Cultural and historical context

Thomas emerged as a poet in the interwar period and achieved prominence during and after World War II. He was part of a generation of writers grappling with the profound social and political changes of the time. While not formally aligned with any specific literary movement, his work shares certain affinities with modernism and surrealism in its exploration of the subconscious and its innovative use of language. His Welsh identity was a significant aspect of his life and work, though he wrote in English.

Personal life

Thomas's personal life was famously tumultuous, marked by his heavy drinking, financial struggles, and a passionate but often strained relationship with his wife, Caitlin Macnamara. His friendships and rivalries were intense, and his bohemian lifestyle often took a toll on his health and his creative output. His relationships and experiences undoubtedly fueled the emotional intensity and raw honesty found in his poetry.

Recognition and reception

Thomas gained international recognition during his lifetime, particularly following his successful reading tours in the United States. His powerful voice and charismatic stage presence made him a captivating performer. While some critics lauded his genius, others found his work overly ornate or self-indulgent. However, his posthumous reputation has grown significantly, solidifying his status as a major poet.

Influences and legacy

Thomas was influenced by the Bible, Welsh mythology, and poets such as Gerard Manley Hopkins, Walt Whitman, and the English Romantics. He, in turn, influenced a generation of poets with his distinctive voice, his lyrical power, and his innovative approach to language. His work continues to be studied and performed, and his poems remain among the most popular and enduring of the 20th century.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Thomas's poetry is often analyzed for its exploration of the tension between life and death, the sacred and the profane, and the individual's relationship with the universe. Critics have debated the extent to which his work is autobiographical, philosophical, or simply a masterful manipulation of language. His themes of mortality and the celebration of life's vitality continue to provoke discussion.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Thomas was known for his public readings, which were often electrifying performances. His work on "Under Milk Wood" was a significant achievement in radio drama. Despite his fame, he often struggled financially, relying on patrons and performing to make ends meet.

Death and memory

Dylan Thomas died in New York City in 1953 at the age of 39, under circumstances often attributed to his heavy drinking and declining health. His death was a significant loss to the literary world. His "Collected Poems, 1934–1952" remains a seminal work, and his legacy as a poet of extraordinary talent and passionate voice continues to thrive.