#WelshWriters
Because the pleasure-bird whistles… Shall the blind horse sing sweeter… Convenient bird and beast lie lodg… The supper and knives of a mood. In the sniffed and poured snow on…
When the morning was waking over t… He put on his clothes and stepped… The locks yawned loose and a blast… He dropped where he loved on the b… And the funeral grains of the slau…
On no work of words now for three… bloody Belly of the rich year and the big… I bitterly take to task my poverty… To take to give is all, return wha…
O Out of a bed of love When that immortal hospital made o… The curless counted body, And ruin and his causes
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing… To you, my aunt, who would explore The literary Chankley Bore, The paths are hard, for you are no… A literary Hottentot
The bows glided down, and the coas… Blackened with birds took a last l… At his thrashing hair and whale-bl… The trodden town rang its cobbles… Then good-bye to the fishermanned
It is a winter’s tale That the snow blind twilight ferri… And floating fields from the farm… Gliding windless through the hand… The pale breath of cattle at the s…
—"Poem in October," Dylan Thomas, Poetry, February 1945 As the story goes, the thirty—something Dylan Thomas would only get up in the morning if someone stuffed a beer bottle in his mo...
Grief thief of time crawls off, The moon-drawn grave, with the sea… The knave of pain steals off The sea-halved faith that blew tim… The old forget the cries,
Who Are you Who is born In the next room So loud to my own
Foster the light nor veil the mans… Nor weather winds that blow not do… But strip the twelve-winded marrow… Master the night nor serve the sno… That shapes each bushy item of the…
My hero bares his nerves along my… That rules form wrist to shoulder, Unpacks the head that, like a slee… Leans on my mortal ruler, The proud spine spurning turn and…
A process in the weather of the he… Turns damp to dry; the golden shot Storms in the freezing tomb. A weather in the quarter of the ve… Turns night to day; blood in their…
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sle...