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.

Do not go gentle into that good night    
    


Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.



Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.



Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Fern Hill    




Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,

     The night above the dingle starry,

          Time let me hail and climb

     Golden in the heydays of his eyes,

And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns

And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves

          Trail with daisies and barley

     Down the rivers of the windfall light.



And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns

About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,

     In the sun that is young once only,

          Time let me play and be

     Golden in the mercy of his means,

And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves

Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,

          And the sabbath rang slowly

     In the pebbles of the holy streams.



All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay

Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air

     And playing, lovely and watery

          And fire green as grass.

     And nightly under the simple stars

As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,

All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars

     Flying with the ricks, and the horses

          Flashing into the dark.



And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all

     Shining, it was Adam and maiden,

          The sky gathered again

     And the sun grew round that very day.

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

     Out of the whinnying green stable

          On to the fields of praise.



And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house

Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,

     In the sun born over and over,

          I ran my heedless ways,

     My wishes raced through the house high hay

And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows

In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs

     Before the children green and golden

          Follow him out of grace,



Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me

Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,

     In the moon that is always rising,

          Nor that riding to sleep

     I should hear him fly with the high fields

And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

          Time held me green and dying

     Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Light breaks where no sun shines    



Light breaks where no sun shines;

Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart

Push in their tides;

And, broken ghosts with glow-worms in their heads,

The things of light

File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.



A candle in the thighs

Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;

Where no seed stirs,

The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,

Bright as a fig;

Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.



Dawn breaks behind the eyes;

From poles of skull and toe the windy blood

Slides like a sea;

Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky

Spout to the rod

Divining in a smile the oil of tears.



Night in the sockets rounds,

Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes;

Day lights the bone;

Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin

The winter's robes;

The film of spring is hanging from the lids.





Light breaks on secret lots,

On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;

When logics dies,

The secret of the soil grows through the eye,

And blood jumps in the sun;

Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.

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 the box of nerves

Praising the mortal error

Of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,

And the hunger's emperor;

He pulls the chain, the cistern moves.

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.

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

     And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
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.

Dylan Thomas

 Ruka što potpisa papir

Ruka što potpisa papir sruši grad
Vladarski prsti namet na zrak udariše
Dvostruko već je mrtvih, zemlja prepolovljenja;
Tih pet kraljeva i kralja usmrtiše.

Tu moćnu ruku spušteno vodi rame
Zglobove prstiju već zgrčio je kreč;
Pero je guščje dovršilo umorstvo
Koje dovrši riječ.

Potpisa ruka ukaz i ognjicu rodi,
Dođoše skakavci, nasta vrijeme glada;
Velika to je ruka što ovlaš, potpisom
Čovjekom može da vlada.

Mrtvace broje tih pet kraljeva no neće
Ublažit čelo ni smekšat skorenu ranu;
Ta ruka milost daje ko ruka što nebom vlada;
Nemaju ruke suza da im kanu.


Sjaj se lomi gde sunce ne sije

Sjaj se lomi gdje sunce ne sije;
Gdje more se ne miče, a vode u srcu
U plimama se biju;
I slomljene sablasti s krijesnicom u glavi,
Od sjaja stvari,
Kroz meso bruse se gdje meso kost ne krije.

U bokovima svijeća
Mlado će sjeme zgrijat,sjeme vremena sažgat;
Gdje sjeme se ne miče
Plod se čovjekov razrasta u zvijezde,
Ko smokva blistav;
Kad voska nema, luč će stijenj pokazat.

Iza očiju prolomit će se zora;
Od lubanje i prstiju, vjetrena će krv
Lizat poput mora;
Bez zabrana, bez kolja, izljevi nebesa
U stapkama će brizgatI ljubiti u smijehu ulje suza.

U dupljama zaoblit će noć.
Ko mjesec paklinast, granicu globusa;
Dan ozari kost;
Gdje studen nije, zderat će oluja
Ruho od zime;
Mrena tad proljetna na kapcima visi.

Sjaj će na tajnoj baštini se slomit,
Na vrhu misli gdje misli mirišu u kiši;
Kad razum umre
Tajna će tla kroz oči nići,
Krv se u sunce dići,
A iznad pustih zemljišta zastati će zora.

Snaga koja cvijet kroy zelen stapku goni


Snaga koja cvijet kroz zelen stapku goni
Zelenu dob mi goni; korijen stablu ruši
I mene krši.
A ja sam nijem da svitoj ruži zborim
Od iste groze zimljive da moja mladost gori.

Snaga koja vodu kroz klisuru tjera
Krv crvenu mi tjera; potok suši,
Moju u vosak gruša.
A ja sam nijem da svojem žilju kažem
Da gorski vrutak sišu ista usta.

Ruka što vodu kovitla u mlaki
Miješa živi pijesak; veže vjetru dah
I jedro mi puni.
A ja sam nijem obješenom prozborit
Da krvnik svoje vapno od moje gline tvori.

Usne vremena pripijaju se k česmi;
Ljubav kaplje i skuplja se, no pala krv
Ozljedu će utišat.
A ja sam nijem da vjetru progovorim
Da vrijeme nebo oko zvijezda riše.

I nijem sam reći ljubavi u grobu
Da ponjavom mi plazi isti svijen crv.


Poslije pogreba

(u spomen Anni Jones)

Poslije pogreba, jecave hvale, jauci,
Vjetar što stresa uši ko jedra, prigušen topot,
Kuckanje zavrtnja u blatnoj stopi groba,
Vjeđe zasjenjene i zubi u crnini,
Oči slinave, rukavi slanih kapi,
Jutrom udarac lopatom što tjera san
I stresa dječaka očajnog gdje siječe svoje grlo
U mraku kovčega i suho lišće sipa,
Što lomi jednu kost do sjaja s ruhom suca,
A nakon slave čkalja, vremena gustih suza,
U izbi s lisicom punjenom, u izbi s paprati uvelom,
Ja stojim, sam, u ime ove uspomene
U jecav sat s mrtvom zgrbljenom Annom
Kojoj je srce zapretano jednom ko česma pljuštalo
Spženim svijetom Walesa i svako sunce utapalo,
(Pa nek je za nju to čudovišna slika i slijepo
U hvali pretjerana; smrt joj je bila tiha kap;
 Ne bi mi dala da poplavi me slava
I plima njenog srca; duboko nijema bi legla
I njenom skršenom tijelu ne bi trebalo vrača).
Ali ja, Annin bard, na uspravljenom ognjištu,
Sva mora zovem na službu, da krepost joj šutljivu
Žamore ko zvona na bovi ponad raspjevanih glava,
Da sijaju papratne zidove lisičijih šuma,
Da ljubav joj ljuljaju i poju u smeđem hramu,
Blagoslove duh sa četiri ukrštene ptice.
Meso je imala blago ko mlijeko, no kip što stremi u nebo
Divljih grudiju, blažene lubanje diva,
Iz nje sad klešem u izbi s mokrim oknom
Dok kuća žestoko nariče i godina dok se svija.
Poznam joj dlanove oljuštene, ponizne jetke ruke,
I znam da leže u vjeri zgrčene, njen istanjeni
Šapat u vlažnoj riječi, pamet sada već praznu
I šaku njenog lica priljubljenu uz bol,
Tu isklesanu Annu, sedamdeset ljeta kamena.
Ruke od mramora natopljene oblacima, ta velika
Prepirka odsječnim glasom, gest i psalam,
Nek huje zauvijek sa mnom nad njenom rakom
Sve dok se pluće lisici ne gane dok ne zagrca Ljubav
A gizdava paprat ne položi sjeme na crni prag.