#WelshWriters
Why east wind chills and south win… Shall not be known till windwell d… And west’s no longer drowned In winds that bring the fruit and… Of many a hundred falls;
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing… To you, my aunt, who would explore The literary Chankley Bore, The paths are hard, for you are no… A literary Hottentot
O make me a mask and a wall to shu… Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and t… Rape and rebellion in the nurserie… Gag of dumbstruck tree to block fr… The bayonet tongue in this undefen…
To-day, this insect, and the world… Now that my symbols have outelbowe… Time at the city spectacles, and h… The dear, daft time I take to nud… In trust and tale I have divided…
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…
It’s my belief that every man Should do his share of work, And in our economic plan No citizen should shirk. That in return each one should get
This bread I break was once the o… This wine upon a foreign tree Plunged in its fruit; Man in the day or wine at night Laid the crops low, broke the grap…
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…
Hold hard, these ancient minutes i… Under the lank, fourth folly on G… As the green blooms ride upward, t… Time, in a folly’s rider, like a c… Over the vault of ridings with his…
There once was a Square, such a s… And he loved a trim Triangle; But she was a flirt and around her… Vainly she made him dangle. Oh he wanted to wed and he had no…
Here in this spring, stars float a… Here in this ornamental winter Down pelts the naked weather; This summer buries a spring bird. Symbols are selected from the year…
In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arm…
Too proud to die; broken and blind… The darkest way, and did not turn… A cold kind man brave in his narro… On that darkest day. Oh, forever… He lie lightly, at last, on the la…
—"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...
A bunch of the boys were whooping… The kid that handles the music—box… Back of the bar, in a solo game, s… And watching his luck was his ligh… When out of the night, which was f…