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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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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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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


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.


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.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Poem On His Birthday

 In the mustardseed sun,
By full tilt river and switchback sea
 Where the cormorants scud,
In his house on stilts high among beaks
 And palavers of birds
This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave
 He celebrates and spurns
His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age;
 Herons spire and spear.
Under and round him go Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails, Doing what they are told, Curlews aloud in the congered waves Work at their ways to death, And the rhymer in the long tongued room, Who tolls his birthday bell, Toils towards the ambush of his wounds; Herons, steeple stemmed, bless.
In the thistledown fall, He sings towards anguish; finches fly In the claw tracks of hawks On a seizing sky; small fishes glide Through wynds and shells of drowned Ship towns to pastures of otters.
He In his slant, racking house And the hewn coils of his trade perceives Herons walk in their shroud, The livelong river's robe Of minnows wreathing around their prayer; And far at sea he knows, Who slaves to his crouched, eternal end Under a serpent cloud, Dolphins dive in their turnturtle dust, The rippled seals streak down To kill and their own tide daubing blood Slides good in the sleek mouth.
In a cavernous, swung Wave's silence, wept white angelus knells.
Thirty-five bells sing struck On skull and scar where his loves lie wrecked, Steered by the falling stars.
And to-morrow weeps in a blind cage Terror will rage apart Before chains break to a hammer flame And love unbolts the dark And freely he goes lost In the unknown, famous light of great And fabulous, dear God.
Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true, And, in that brambled void, Plenty as blackberries in the woods The dead grow for His joy.
There he might wander bare With the spirits of the horseshoe bay Or the stars' seashore dead, Marrow of eagles, the roots of whales And wishbones of wild geese, With blessed, unborn God and His Ghost, And every soul His priest, Gulled and chanter in young Heaven's fold Be at cloud quaking peace, But dark is a long way.
He, on the earth of the night, alone With all the living, prays, Who knows the rocketing wind will blow The bones out of the hills, And the scythed boulders bleed, and the last Rage shattered waters kick Masts and fishes to the still quick starts, Faithlessly unto Him Who is the light of old And air shaped Heaven where souls grow wild As horses in the foam: Oh, let me midlife mourn by the shrined And druid herons' vows The voyage to ruin I must run, Dawn ships clouted aground, Yet, though I cry with tumbledown tongue, Count my blessings aloud: Four elements and five Senses, and man a spirit in love Tangling through this spun slime To his nimbus bell cool kingdom come And the lost, moonshine domes, And the sea that hides his secret selves Deep in its black, base bones, Lulling of spheres in the seashell flesh, And this last blessing most, That the closer I move To death, one man through his sundered hulks, The louder the sun blooms And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults; And every wave of the way And gale I tackle, the whole world then, With more triumphant faith That ever was since the world was said, Spins its morning of praise, I hear the bouncing hills Grow larked and greener at berry brown Fall and the dew larks sing Taller this thunderclap spring, and how More spanned with angles ride The mansouled fiery islands! Oh, Holier then their eyes, And my shining men no more alone As I sail out to die.