#WelshWriters
When the morning was waking over t… He put on his clothes and stepped… The locks yawned loose and a blast… He dropped where he loved on the b… And the funeral grains of the slau…
Not from this anger, anticlimax af… Refusal struck her loin and the la… Bent like a beast to lap the singu… In a land strapped by hunger Shall she receive a bellyful of we…
Half of the fellow father as he do… His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow… Half of the fellow mother as she d… To-morrow’s diver in her horny mil… Bisected shadows on the thunder’s…
A stranger has come To share my room in the house not… A girl mad as birds Bolting the night of the door with… Strait in the mazed bed
Sometimes the sky’s too bright, Or has too many clouds or birds, And far away’s too sharp a sun To nourish thinking of him. Why is my hand too blunt
Myselves The grievers Grieve Among the street burned to tireles… A child of a few hours
There was a saviour Rarer than radium, Commoner than water, crueller than… Children kept from the sun Assembled at his tongue
'Find meat on bones that soon have… And drink in the two milked crags, The merriest marrow and the dregs Before the ladies’ breasts are hag… And the limbs are torn.
Where once the waters of your face Spun to my screws, your dry ghost… The dead turns up its eye; Where once the mermen through your… Pushed up their hair, the dry wind…
When I was a windy boy and a bit And the black spit of the chapel f… (Sighed the old ram rod, dying of… I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wo… The rude owl cried like a tell-tal…
The force that through the green f… Drives my green age; that blasts t… Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked… My youth is bent by the same wintr…
The hand that signed the paper fel… Five sovereign fingers taxed the b… Doubled the globe of dead and halv… These five kings did a king to dea… The mighty hand leads to a sloping…
The conversation of prayers about… By the child going to bed and the… Who climbs to his dying love in he… The one not caring to whom in his… And the other full of tears that s…
—"Poem in October," Dylan Thomas, Poetry, February 1945 As the story goes, the thirty—something Dylan Thomas would only get up in the morning if someone stuffed a beer bottle in his mo...
Then was my neophyte, Child in white blood bent on its k… Under the bell of rocks, Ducked in the twelve, disciple sea… The winder of the water—clocks