By Dylan Thomas
178 pp, darkish blue textile hardback, gold lettering on backbone
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Additional info for Collected Poems (1934-1952)
No more may gulls cry at their ears Or waves break loud on the seashores; Where blew a flower may a flower no more Lift its head to the blows of the rain; Though they be mad and dead as nails, Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion. 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.
An old, mad man still climbing in his ghost, My fathers’ ghost is climbing in the rain. I dreamed my genesis I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking Through the rotating shell, strong As motor muscle on the drill, driving Through vision and the girdered nerve. From limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled Off from the creasing flesh, filed Through all the irons in the grass, metal Of suns in the man-melting night. Heir to the scalding veins that hold love’s drop, costly A creature in my bones I Rounded my globe of heritage, journey In bottom gear through night-geared man.
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.
Collected Poems (1934-1952) by Dylan Thomas