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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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Should Lanterns Shine

 Should lanterns shine, the holy face,
Caught in an octagon of unaccustomed light,
Would wither up, an any boy of love
Look twice before he fell from grace.
The features in their private dark Are formed of flesh, but let the false day come And from her lips the faded pigments fall, The mummy cloths expose an ancient breast.
I have been told to reason by the heart, But heart, like head, leads helplessly; I have been told to reason by the pulse, And, when it quickens, alter the actions' pace Till field and roof lie level and the same So fast I move defying time, the quiet gentleman Whose beard wags in Egyptian wind.
I have heard may years of telling, And many years should see some change.
The ball I threw while playing in the park Has not yet reached the ground.


by Dylan Thomas | |

When All My Five And Country Senses See

 When all my five and country senses see,
The fingers will forget green thumbs and mark
How, through the halfmoon's vegetable eye,
Husk of young stars and handfull zodiac,
Love in the frost is pared and wintered by,
The whispering ears will watch love drummed away
Down breeze and shell to a discordant beach,
And, lashed to syllables, the lynx tongue cry
That her fond wounds are mended bitterly.
My nostrils see her breath burn like a bush.
My one and noble heart has witnesses In all love's countries, that will grope awake; And when blind sleep drops on the spying senses, The heart is sensual, though five eyes break.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Incarnate Devil

 Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
And God walked there who was a fiddling warden
And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.
When we were strangers to the guided seas, A handmade moon half holy in a cloud, The wisemen tell me that the garden gods Twined good and evil on an eastern tree; And when the moon rose windily it was Black as the beast and paler than the cross.
We in our Eden knew the secret guardian In sacred waters that no frost could harden, And in the mighty mornings of the earth; Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth, All heaven in the midnight of the sun, A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.


by Dylan Thomas | |

A Process In The Weather Of The Heart

 A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins Turns night to day; blood in their suns Lights up the living worm.
A process in the eye forwarns The bones of blindness; and the womb Drives in a death as life leaks out.
A darkness in the weather of the eye Is half its light; the fathomed sea Breaks on unangled land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin Forks half its fruit; and half drops down, Slow in a sleeping wind.
A weather in the flesh and bone Is damp and dry; the quick and dead Move like two ghosts before the eye.
A process in the weather of the world Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun, Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin; And the heart gives up its dead.


by Dylan Thomas | |

The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower

 The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head; Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Dylan Thomas - Holy Spring

 O
 Out of a bed of love
When that immortal hospital made one more moove to soothe
 The curless counted body,
 And ruin and his causes
Over the barbed and shooting sea assumed an army
 And swept into our wounds and houses,
I climb to greet the war in which I have no heart but only
 That one dark I owe my light,
Call for confessor and wiser mirror but there is none
 To glow after the god stoning night
And I am struck as lonely as a holy marker by the sun.
No Praise that the spring time is all Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful Out of the woebegone pyre And the multitude's sultry tear turns cool on the weeping wall, My arising prodgidal Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire, But blessed be hail and upheaval That uncalm still it is sure alone to stand and sing Alone in the husk of man's home And the mother and toppling house of the holy spring, If only for a last time.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Sometimes The Skys Too Bright

 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 To cut in front of me My horrid images for me, Of over-fruitful smiles, The weightless touching of the lip I wish to know I cannot lift, but can, The creature with the angel's face Who tells me hurt, And sees my body go Down into misery? No stopping.
Put the smile Where tears have come to dry.
The angel's hurt is left; His telling burns.
Sometimes a woman's heart has salt, Or too much blood; I tear her breast, And see the blood is mine, Flowing from her, but mine, And then I think Perhaps the sky's too bright; And watch my hand, But do not follow it, And feel the pain it gives, But do not ache.


by Dylan Thomas | |

My Hero Bares His Nerves

 My hero bares his nerves along my wrist
That rules from wrist to shoulder,
Unpacks the head that, like a sleepy ghost,
Leans on my mortal ruler,
The proud spine spurning turn and twist.
And these poor nerves so wired to the skull Ache on the lovelorn paper I hug to love with my unruly scrawl That utters all love hunger And tells the page the empty ill.
My hero bares my side and sees his heart Tread; like a naked Venus, The beach of flesh, and wind her bloodred plait; Stripping my loin of promise, He promises a secret heat.
He holds the wire from this box of nerves Praising the mortal error Of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves, And the hunger's emperor; He pulls that chain, the cistern moves.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Not From This Anger

 Not from this anger, anticlimax after
Refusal struck her loin and the lame flower
Bent like a beast to lap the singular floods
In a land strapped by hunger
Shall she receive a bellyful of weeds
And bear those tendril hands I touch across
The agonized, two seas.
Behind my head a square of sky sags over The circular smile tossed from lover to lover And the golden ball spins out of the skies; Not from this anger after Refusal struck like a bell under water Shall her smile breed that mouth, behind the mirror, That burns along my eyes.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Among Those Killed In The Dawn Raid Was A Man Aged A Hundred

 When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from the common cart, The morning is flying on the wings of his age And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Twenty-Four Years

 Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.
) In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor Sewing a shroud for a journey By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, With my red veins full of money, In the final direction of the elementary town I advance as long as forever is.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Ears In The Turrets Hear

 Ears in the turrets hear
Hands grumble on the door,
Eyes in the gables see
The fingers at the locks.
Shall I unbolt or stay Alone till the day I die Unseen by stranger-eyes In this white house? Hands, hold you poison or grapes? Beyond this island bound By a thin sea of flesh And a bone coast, The land lies out of sound And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish Disturbs this island's rest.
Ears in this island hear The wind pass like a fire, Eyes in this island see Ships anchor off the bay.
Shall I run to the ships With the wind in my hair, Or stay till the day I die And welcome no sailor? Ships, hold you poison or grapes? Hands grumble on the door, Ships anchor off the bay, Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger, Shall I welcome the sailor, Or stay till the day I die? Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships, Hold you poison or grapes?


by Dylan Thomas | |

Where Once The Waters Of Your Face

 Where once the waters of your face
Spun to my screws, your dry ghost blows,
The dead turns up its eye;
Where once the mermen through your ice
Pushed up their hair, the dry wind steers
Through salt and root and roe.
Where once your green knots sank their splice Into the tided cord, there goes The green unraveller, His scissors oiled, his knife hung loose To cut the channels at their source And lay the wet fruits low.
Invisible, your clocking tides Break on the lovebeds of the weeds; The weed of love's left dry; There round about your stones the shades Of children go who, from their voids, Cry to the dolphined sea.
Dry as a tomb, your coloured lids Shall not be latched while magic glides Sage on the earth and sky; There shall be corals in your beds There shall be serpents in your tides, Till all our sea-faiths die.


by Dylan Thomas | |

A Refusal To Mourn The Death By Fire Of A Child In London

 Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder The mankind of her going with a grave truth Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath With any further Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter, Robed in the long friends, The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother, Secret by the unmourning water Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.


by Dylan Thomas | |

On A Wedding Anniversary

 The sky is torn across
This ragged anniversary of two
Who moved for three years in tune
Down the long walks of their vows.
Now their love lies a loss And Love and his patients roar on a chain; From every tune or crater Carrying cloud, Death strikes their house.
Too late in the wrong rain They come together whom their love parted: The windows pour into their heart And the doors burn in their brain.