Orbler
Byron Twain
Brenton
Dexter
Jeanne Dininni
Shilpa KarhikOn no Work of Words by Dylan Thomas
May 16th 2008 05:09
On No Work Of Words
by Dylan Thomas
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.
The writing habit breaks,
Inspiration bleeds,
Not for profit but essential to sanity,
Uneven income, dry for months, flooded for weeks.
Hermited creation like children released,
Free to effect no one, yearning to inspire individual thought.
No gauge of response, no thermometer of measure, no metre of readers,
The toil of verse only survives to define self.
by Dylan Thomas
Dylan Thomas 1914-1953
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.
Review in Poem by Dexter
The writing habit breaks,
Inspiration bleeds,
Not for profit but essential to sanity,
Uneven income, dry for months, flooded for weeks.
Hermited creation like children released,
Free to effect no one, yearning to inspire individual thought.
No gauge of response, no thermometer of measure, no metre of readers,
The toil of verse only survives to define self.
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