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 the 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.
Mots clés life poetry writer-s-block reciprocity
It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobbledstreets silent and the hunched courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.
Dylan ThomasClown in the Moon"
My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.
Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.
Dylan ThomasThis poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.
Dylan ThomasMots clés pain poetry suffering obscurity
أعلم أننا لسنا قديسون أو عذارى أو مخابيل؛ نحن ندري كل شهوة وكل نكتة من نكات المراحيض, ونعرف أكثرية الناس الوسخين؛ بإمكاننا أن نستقل الحافلات ونعد الفكة ونَعبر الطرق وننطق بجمل حقيقية. بيد أن براءتنا عميقة عمقاً لا حد له, وسرنا المشين هو أننا لا نفقه شيئاً على الإطلاق, أمَّا سرنا الباطني المروع فهو أننا لا نكترث لهذا الجهل
Dylan ThomasAll the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find.
Dylan ThomasThough lovers be lost, love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.
Dylan ThomasMots clés love death mourning lost-love
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A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it. A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone's knowledge of himself and the world around him.
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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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