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Best Famous Dylan Thomas Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Dylan Thomas poems. This is a select list of the best famous Dylan Thomas poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Dylan Thomas poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Dylan Thomas poems.

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Written by Dylan Thomas | |

Lie Still Sleep Becalmed

 Lie still, sleep becalmed, sufferer with the wound
In the throat, burning and turning.
All night afloat On the silent sea we have heard the sound That came from the wound wrapped in the salt sheet.
Under the mile off moon we trembled listening To the sea sound flowing like blood from the loud wound And when the salt sheet broke in a storm of singing The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind.
Open a pathway through the slow sad sail, Throw wide to the wind the gates of the wandering boat For my voyage to begin to the end of my wound, We heard the sea sound sing, we saw the salt sheet tell.
Lie still, sleep becalmed, hide the mouth in the throat, Or we shall obey, and ride with you through the drowned.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

This Side Of The Truth

 (for Llewelyn)

This side of the truth,
You may not see, my son,
King of your blue eyes
In the blinding country of youth,
That all is undone,
Under the unminding skies,
Of innocence and guilt
Before you move to make
One gesture of the heart or head,
Is gathered and spilt
Into the winding dark
Like the dust of the dead.
Good and bad, two ways Of moving about your death By the grinding sea, King of your heart in the blind days, Blow away like breath, Go crying through you and me And the souls of all men Into the innocent Dark, and the guilty dark, and good Death, and bad death, and then In the last element Fly like the stars' blood Like the sun's tears, Like the moon's seed, rubbish And fire, the flying rant Of the sky, king of your six years.
And the wicked wish, Down the beginning of plants And animals and birds, Water and Light, the earth and sky, Is cast before you move, And all your deeds and words, Each truth, each lie, Die in unjudging love.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

Now

 I sit here on the 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
some damned gall, at 71, my brain cells eaten away by life.
rows of books behind me, I scratch my thinning hair and search for the word.
for decades now I have infuriated the ladies, the critics, the university suck-toads.
they all will soon have their time to celebrate.
"terribly overrated.
.
.
" "gross.
.
.
" "an aberration.
.
.
" my hands sink into the keyboard of my Macintosh, it's the same old con that scraped me off the streets and park benches, the same simple line I learned in those cheap rooms, I can't let go, sitting here on this 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.
the gods smile down, the gods smile down, the gods smile down.
Black Sparrow "New Year's Greeting" 1992


More great poems below...

Written by Dylan Thomas | |

Our Eunuch Dreams

 I

Our eunuch dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boys' limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.
The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds, When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm, The bones of men, the broken in their beds, By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.
II In this our age the gunman and his moll Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel, Strange to our solid eye, And speak their midnight nothings as they swell; When cameras shut they hurry to their hole down in the yard of day.
They dance between their arclamps and our skull, Impose their shots, showing the nights away; We watch the show of shadows kiss or kill Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.
III Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which Shall fall awake when cures and their itch Raise up this red-eyed earth? Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch, The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich, Or drive the night-geared forth.
The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth; The dream has sucked the sleeper of his faith That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.
IV This is the world; the lying likeness of Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move Loving and being loth; The dream that kicks the buried from their sack And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.
This is the world.
Have faith.
For we shall be a shouter like the cock, Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack The image from the plates; And we shall be fit fellows for a life, And who remains shall flower as they love, Praise to our faring hearts.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

When Once The Twilight Locks No Longer

 When once the twilight locks no longer
Locked in the long worm of my finger
Nor damned the sea that sped about my fist,
The mouth of time sucked, like a sponge,
The milky acid on each hinge,
And swallowed dry the waters of the breast.
When the galactic sea was sucked And all the dry seabed unlocked, I sent my creature scouting on the globe, That globe itself of hair and bone That, sewn to me by nerve and brain, Had stringed my flask of matter to his rib.
My fuses are timed to charge his heart, He blew like powder to the light And held a little sabbath with the sun, But when the stars, assuming shape, Drew in his eyes the straws of sleep He drowned his father's magics in a dream.
All issue armoured, of the grave, The redhaired cancer still alive, The cataracted eyes that filmed their cloth; Some dead undid their bushy jaws, And bags of blood let out their flies; He had by heart the Christ-cross-row of death.
Sleep navigates the tides of time; The dry Sargasso of the tomb Gives up its dead to such a working sea; And sleep rolls mute above the beds Where fishes' food is fed the shades Who periscope through flowers to the sky.
When once the twilight screws were turned, And mother milk was stiff as sand, I sent my own ambassador to light; By trick or chance he fell asleep And conjured up a carcass shape To rob me of my fluids in his heart.
Awake, my sleeper, to the sun, A worker in the morning town, And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies; The fences of the light are down, All but the briskest riders thrown And worlds hang on the trees.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

The Seed-At-Zero

 The seed-at-zero shall not storm
That town of ghosts, the trodden womb,
With her rampart to his tapping,
No god-in-hero tumble down
Like a tower on the town
Dumbly and divinely stumbling
Over the manwaging line.
The seed-at-zero shall not storm That town of ghosts, the manwaged tomb With her rampart to his tapping, No god-in-hero tumble down Like a tower on the town Dumbly and divinely leaping Over the warbearing line.
Through the rampart of the sky Shall the star-flanked seed be riddled, Manna for the rumbling ground, Quickening for the riddled sea; Settled on a virgin stronghold He shall grapple with the guard And the keeper of the key.
May a humble village labour And a continent deny? A hemisphere may scold him And a green inch be his bearer; Let the hero seed find harbour, Seaports by a drunken shore Have their thirsty sailors hide him.
May be a humble planet labour And a continent deny? A village green may scold him And a high sphere be his bearer; Let the hero seed find harbour, Seaports by a thirsty shore Have their drunken sailors hide him.
Man-in-seed, in seed-at-zero, From the foreign fields of space, Shall not thunder on the town With a star-flanked garrison, Nor the cannons of his kingdom Shall the hero-in-tomorrow Range on the sky-scraping place.
Man-in-seed, in seed-at-zero, From the star-flanked fields of space, Thunders on the foreign town With a sand-bagged garrison, Nor the cannons of his kingdom Shall the hero-in-to-morrow Range from the grave-groping place.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

On No Work Of Words

 On no work of words now for three lean months in the
 bloody
Belly of the rich year and the big purse of my body
I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft:

To take to give is all, return what is hungrily given
Puffing the pounds of manna up through the dew to heaven,
The lovely gift of the gab bangs back on a blind shaft.
To lift to leave from treasures of man is pleasing death That will rake at last all currencies of the marked breath And count the taken, forsaken mysteries in a bad dark.
To surrender now is to pay the expensive ogre twice.
Ancient woods of my blood, dash down to the nut of the seas If I take to burn or return this world which is each man's work.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

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.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

Hold Hard These Ancient Minutes In The Cuckoos Month

 Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month,
Under the lank, fourth folly on Glamorgan's hill,
As the green blooms ride upward, to the drive of time;
Time, in a folly's rider, like a county man
Over the vault of ridings with his hound at heel,
Drives forth my men, my children, from the hanging south.
Country, your sport is summer, and December's pools By crane and water-tower by the seedy trees Lie this fifth month unskated, and the birds have flown; Holy hard, my country children in the world if tales, The greenwood dying as the deer fall in their tracks, The first and steepled season, to the summer's game.
And now the horns of England, in the sound of shape, Summon your snowy horsemen, and the four-stringed hill, Over the sea-gut loudening, sets a rock alive; Hurdles and guns and railings, as the boulders heave, Crack like a spring in vice, bone breaking April, Spill the lank folly's hunter and the hard-held hope.
Down fall four padding weathers on the scarlet lands, Stalking my children's faces with a tail of blood, Time, in a rider rising, from the harnessed valley; Hold hard, my country darlings, for a hawk descends, Golden Glamorgan straightens, to the falling birds.
Your sport is summer as the spring runs angrily.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

Once It Was The Colour Of Saying

 Once it was the colour of saying
Soaked my table the uglier side of a hill
With a capsized field where a school sat still
And a black and white patch of girls grew playing;
The gentle seaslides of saying I must undo
That all the charmingly drowned arise to cockcrow and kill.
When I whistled with mitching boys through a reservoir park Where at night we stoned the cold and cuckoo Lovers in the dirt of their leafy beds, The shade of their trees was a word of many shades And a lamp of lightning for the poor in the dark; Now my saying shall be my undoing, And every stone I wind off like a reel.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

January 1939

 Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,
Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?
Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer
The supper and knives of a mood.
In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms, An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires, Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food, Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair In a wind that plucked a goose, Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs, Rounds to look at the red, wagged root.
Because there stands, one story out of the bum city, That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea Secretly in statuary, Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street, Not spin to stare at an old year Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries Like the mauled pictures of boys? The salt person and blasted place I furnish with the meat of a fable.
If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble An upright man in the antipodes Or spray-based and rock-chested sea: Over the past table I repeat this present grace.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

All All And All The Dry Worlds Lever

 I

All all and all the dry worlds lever,
Stage of the ice, the solid ocean,
All from the oil, the pound of lava.
City of spring, the governed flower, Turns in the earth that turns the ashen Towns around on a wheel of fire.
How now my flesh, my naked fellow, Dug of the sea, the glanded morrow, Worm in the scalp, the staked and fallow.
All all and all, the corpse's lover, Skinny as sin, the foaming marrow, All of the flesh, the dry worlds lever.
II Fear not the waking world, my mortal, Fear not the flat, synthetic blood, Nor the heart in the ribbing metal.
Fear not the tread, the seeded milling, The trigger and scythe, the bridal blade, Nor the flint in the lover's mauling.
Man of my flesh, the jawbone riven, Know now the flesh's lock and vice, And the cage for the scythe-eyed raver.
Know, O my bone, the jointed lever, Fear not the screws that turn the voice, And the face to the driven lover.
III All all and all the dry worlds couple, Ghost with her ghost, contagious man With the womb of his shapeless people.
All that shapes from the caul and suckle, Stroke of mechanical flesh on mine, Square in these worlds the mortal circle.
Flower, flower the people's fusion, O light in zenith, the coupled bud, And the flame in the flesh's vision.
Out of the sea, the drive of oil, Socket and grave, the brassy blood, Flower, flower, all all and all.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

All That I Owe The Fellows Of The Grave

 All that I owe the fellows of the grave
And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates
Lies in the fortuned bone, the flask of blood,
Like senna stirs along the ravaged roots.
O all I owe is all the flesh inherits, My fathers' loves that pull upon my nerves, My sisters tears that sing upon my head My brothers' blood that salts my open wounds Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, My fallen filled, that had the hint of death, Heir to the telling senses that alone Acquaint the flesh with a remembered itch, I round this heritage as rounds the sun His windy sky, and, as the candles moon, Cast light upon my weather.
I am heir To women who have twisted their last smile, To children who were suckled on a plague, To young adorers dying on a kiss.
All such disease I doctor in my blood, And all such love's a shrub sown in the breath.
Then look, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune And browse upon the postures of the dead; All night and day I eye the ragged globe Through periscopes rightsighted from the grave; All night and day I wander in these same Wax clothes that wax upon the aging ribs; All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
Then look, my heart, upon the scarlet trove, And look, my grain, upon the falling wheat; All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

How Shall My Animal

 How shall my animal
Whose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull,
Vessel of abscesses and exultation's shell,
Endure burial under the spelling wall,
The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face,
Who should be furious,
Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus,
Roaring, crawling, quarrel
With the outside weathers,
The natural circle of the discovered skies
Draw down to its weird eyes?

How shall it magnetize,
Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blaze
That melts the lionhead's heel and horseshoe of the heart
A brute land in the cool top of the country days
To trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile,
Love and labour and kill
In quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sprout
The black, burst sea rejoice,
The bowels turn turtle,
Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particle
The parched and raging voice?

Fishermen of mermen
Creep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pin
With bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein,
Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-bound
Curl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone,
Trace out a tentacle,
Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and weed
To clasp my fury on ground
And clap its great blood down;
Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas
Or poise the day on a horn.
Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn, Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frost Clack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars drops With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye, Clips short the gesture of breath.
Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut, And roll with the knocked earth: Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.
You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light, And dug your grave in my breast.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

My World Is Pyramid

 I

Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her horny milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.
The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop, The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled The swing of milk was tufted in the pap, For half of love was planted in the lost, And the unplanted ghost.
The broken halves are fellowed in a cripple, The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep, Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep, And stake the sleepers in the savage grave That the vampire laugh.
The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees, Sucking the dark, kissed on the cyanide, And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs, Rotating halves are horning as they drill The arterial angel.
What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air, And prick the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw, The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.
II My world is pyramid.
The padded mummer Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet, I scrape through resin to a starry bone And a blood parhelion.
My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads, Screwing their bowels from a hill of bones, Cry Eloi to the guns.
My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South, Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn Through the Atlantic corn.
The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel On casting tides, are tangled in the shells, Bearding the unborn devil, Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide Binding my angel's hood.
Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour? I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The loin is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn, The secret child, I sift about the sea Dry in the half-tracked thigh.