#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...
The tombstone told when she died. Her two surnames stopped me still. A virgin married at rest. She married in this pouring place, That I struck one day by luck,
Once it was the colour of saying Soaked my table the uglier side of… With a capsized field where a scho… And a black and white patch of gir… The gentle seaslides of saying I…
This day winding down now At God speeded summer’s end In the torrent salmon sun, In my seashaken house On a breakneck of rocks
A grief ago, She who was who I hold, the fats… Or, water-lammed, from the scythe-… Hell wind and sea, A stem cementing, wrestled up the…
In the mustardseed sun, By full tilt river and switchback… Where the cormorants scud, In his house on stilts high among… And palavers of birds
I, in my intricate image, stride o… Forged in man’s minerals, the bras… Laying my ghost in metal, The scales of this twin world trea… My half ghost in armour hold hard…
When once the twilight locks no lo… Locked in the long worm of my fing… Nor damned the sea that sped about… The mouth of time sucked, like a s… The milky acid on each hinge,
It is the sinners’ dust-tongued be… When, with his torch and hourglass… His beast heel cleft in a sandal, Time marks a black aisle kindle fr… Grief with dishevelled hands tear…
Do not go gentle into that good ni… Old age should burn and rave at cl… Rage, rage against the dying of th… Though wise men at their end know… Because their words had forked no…
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sle...
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
Foster the light nor veil the mans… Nor weather winds that blow not do… But strip the twelve-winded marrow… Master the night nor serve the sno… That shapes each bushy item of the…
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…
Myselves The grievers Grieve Among the street burned to tireles… A child of a few hours