#WelshWriters
—"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...
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…
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…
Before I knocked and flesh let en… With liquid hands tapped on the wo… I who was shapeless as the water That shaped the Jordan near my ho… Was brother to Mnetha’s daughter
My hero bares his nerves along my… That rules form wrist to shoulder, Unpacks the head that, like a slee… Leans on my mortal ruler, The proud spine spurning turn and…
How shall my animal Whose wizard shape I trace in the… Vessel of abscesses and exultation… Endure burial under the spelling w… The invoked, shrouding veil at the…
Through throats where many rivers… Under the conceiving moon, on the… And there this night I walk in th… Where barren as boulders women lie… To labour and love though they lay…
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
The seed-at-zero shall not storm That town of ghosts, the trodden w… With her rampart to his tapping, No god-in-hero tumble down Like a tower on the town
Waking alone in a multitude of lov… Surprised in the opening of her ni… His golden yesterday asleep upon t… And this day’s sun leapt up the sk… Was miraculous virginity old as lo…
It is a winter’s tale That the snow blind twilight ferri… And floating fields from the farm… Gliding windless through the hand… The pale breath of cattle at the s…
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…
When all my five and country sense… The fingers will forget green thum… How, through the halfmoon’s vegeta… Husk of young stars and handfull z… Love in the frost is pared and win…
O Out of a bed of love When that immortal hospital made o… The curless counted body, And ruin and his causes
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