Αλλάζουμε λίγο στύλ, παραμένοντας βέβαια στην ποιήση

The voyeur is masturbator, the mirror his badge, the window his prey.

Urge to come to terms with the "Outside," by absorbing, interiorizing it. I won't come out, you must come in to me. Into my womb–garden where I peer out. Where I can construct a universe within the skull, to rival the real.

She said, "Your eyes are always black."
The pupil opens to seize the object of vision.

.
.
.
.
.

Sensation

On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths,
Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass :
In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.

I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing :
But endless love will mount in my soul ;
And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy,
Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman.

Ophelie

I

On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily ;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils...
- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.

For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia
Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.
For more than a thousand years her sweet madness
Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.

The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath
Her great veils rising and falling with the waters ;
The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,
The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.

The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her ;
At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,
Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings ;
- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.

II

O pale Ophelia ! beautiful as snow !
Yes child, you died, carried off by a river !
- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of Norway
That spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.

It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,
Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind ;
It was your heart listening to the song of Nature
In the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights ;

It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,
That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft ;
It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madman
Who one April morning sate mute at your knees !

Heaven ! Love ! Freedom ! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl !
You melted to him as snow does to a fire ;
Your great visions strangled your words
- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye !

III

- And the poet says that by starlight
You come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you picked
And that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veils
White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.

Poems. May 15, 1870.

Dance of the Hanged Men

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune !

And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms :
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.

Hurray ! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone !
You can cut capers on such a long stage !
Hop ! never mind whether it's fighting or dancing !
- Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles !

Oh the hard heels, no one's pumps are wearing out !
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin ;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat :

The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin :
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.

Hurrah ! the wind whistles at the skeletons' grand ball !
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests :
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red...

Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae :
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here !

Oh ! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse :
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,

Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones !

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

A Dream for Winter

In the winter, we shall travel in a little pink railway carriage
With blue cushions.
We shall be comfortable. A nest of mad kisses lies in wait
In each soft corner.

You will close your eyes, so as not to see, through the glass,
The evening shadows pulling faces.
Those snarling monsters, a population
Of black devils and black wolves.

Then you'll feel your cheek scratched...
A little kiss, like a crazy spider,
Will run round your neck...

And you'll say to me : "Find it !" bending your head
- And we'll take a long time to find that creature
- Which travels a lot...

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

Τσαρλς Μπουκόφσκι

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune !

And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms :
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.

Hurray ! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone !
You can cut capers on such a long stage !
Hop ! never mind whether it's fighting or dancing !
- Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles !

Oh the hard heels, no one's pumps are wearing out !
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin ;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat :

The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin :
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.

Hurrah ! the wind whistles at the skeletons' grand ball !
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests :
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red...

Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae :
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here !

Oh ! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse :
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,

Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones !

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

In anticipation of my resurrection...

Arthur Rimbaud - The stolen heart

My poor heart dribbles at the stern
My heart covered with caporal
They squirt upon it jets of soup
My poor heart dribbles at the stern
Under the gibes of the whole crew
Which burst out in a single laugh,
My poor heart dribbles at the stern
My heart covered with caporal.

Ithypallic, erkish, lewd,
Their gibes have corrupted it.
In the wheelhouse you can see graffiti
Ithypallic, erkish, lewd.
O abracadantic waves
Take my heart that it may be cleansed !
Ithypallic, erkish, lewd,
Their gibes have corrupted it.

When they have finished chewing their quids
What shall we do, o cheated heart ?
It will be bacchic hiccups then
When they have finished chewing their quids
I shall have stomach heavings then
I can swallow down my heart :
When they have finished chewing their quids
What shall we do, o cheated heart ?

ωστόσο σας ευχαριστώ για τα όμορφα ποιηματάκια σας.

θα επανέλθω σε λίγες μέρες.

τα λέμε!

quote:

---

θα επανέλθω σε λίγες μέρες.

---

επανηλθα λιγουλακι διαφορετικος...

για να δουμε τι εχουμε...

Μπωντλέρ...
"Ο θάνατος των εραστών"

Κρεβάτια θα'χουμε άνθινα,γεμάτα αιθέρια μύρα,
ντιβάνια ολοβελούδινα σαν μνήματα βαθιά,
στις εταζέρες λουλούδια παράξενα τριγύρα,
που άνοιξαν μονάχα για μας σε μέρη μαγικά.

Και ποια την άλλη να υπερβεί στην ύστατη φωτιά τους,
οι δυο καρδιές μας-σαν τρανές λαμπάδες δυό-μαζί
θα διπλοκαθρεφτίσουμε το διπλοφώτισμά τους
στα πνεύματά μας που'ναι δυο καθρέφτες αδερφοί.

Και μια βραδιά ολογάλανη,ρόδινη,μυστική,
θεν'ανταλλάξουμε άξαφνα την ίδια αναλαμπή,
σαν ένα μακροθρήνημα που φέρνει ο χωρισμός.

Κι αργότερα,ένας Άγγελος θα'ρθεί το φως να χύσει
-τις πόρτες μισανοίγοντας,πιστός και χαρωπός-
στους δυο καθρέφτες τους θαμπούς,στις φλόγες που'χαν σβήσει.

when the starflower bloom in the forest's arcane night
then you better turn away

ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!

Της εξορίας ω Πρίγκιπα,που σ'αδίκησαν κι όμως,
και νικημένος πιο ισχυρός ορθώνεσαι,Συ,αιώνια,

ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!

Συ,που όλα τα γρικάς,τρανέ ρήγα του κάτου κόσμου
και γιατρευτή πονετικέ κάθε αγωνίας του ανθρώπου,

ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!

Συ,που και στους πανάθλιους και στους λεπρούς ακόμα
μαθαίνεις με τον έρωτα το τι η Παράδεισο είναι,

ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!

Ω Συ,που από το θάνατο-παλιά,τρανή σου αγάπη-
γέννησες την Ελπίδα-μια τρελή χαριτωμένη,

ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!

Συ,που ησυχάζεις τη ματιά του κάθε προγραμμένου,
που ολόκληρο ντροπιάζει λαό γύρω απ΄την καρμανιόλα,

ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!

Εσυ,που ξέρεις που,βαθιά στη γη,στα έγκατά της,
έκρυψε ο θεός ζηλόφθονα τ'ατίμητα πετράδια,

ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!

.............................

when the starflower bloom in the forest's arcane night
then you better turn away

Σε ποταμούς ακύμαντους αγάλια κατεβαίνοντας
Ένιωσα ξάφνου, από ώρα, δίχως ρυμουλκους στους κάλους.
Κατ΄Ινδιάνοι αλλόφρονες, γυμνούς τους κατατόξευαν
σε ξόανα καρφωμένους παρδαλά και σε πασσάλους.

Έτσι, κι ανέγνοιο πια για πλήρωμα, ή γεννήματα
Φλαμανδικά και πανικά αγγλικά για να φορτώνω,
Όπως η φασαρία με τους ρυμουλκούς μου τέλειωσε,
Καταβουλή μου οι Ποταμοί μ΄αφήκαν να ξαμώνω.

Να πώς, παιδί ανυπάκουο λες, μες στ¨αλλο καταχείμωνο
Στων πλημμυρίδων το φρικτόν εδόθηκα το σάλο.
Θαρρω πως τέτοιο σμίξιμο οι βράχοι οι ακροτελεύτιοι
Σε θρίαμβο εγκελαδικό δεν είδαν πιο μεγάλο.

Η θύελλα τις πλαγινές ευλόγησεν αγρύπνιες μου.
Δέκα νυχτιές, φελλό, μ΄έπαιξε ο κύμας, που από κάμψεις
Κι από πνιγμούς του ΄γραψε η μοίρα να ρολάρει πίσωθε,
Χωρίς των φάρων τις κουτές να επιθυμήσω εκλάμψεις.

Πράσινο ενότισε νερό το στέρνο μου το ελάτινο
Γλυκό σαν μήλο - λαίμαργα παιδί που το δαγκώνει.
Και μ΄έπλυνεν η θάλασσα από κρασιά κι εδέσματα
Με τόση ορμή που δίχως άγκυρα μ΄αφησε και τιμόνι.

Κι αχ, από τότε λούζομαι στην ποίηση την νερένια, που
Απόσταγμα αστεριών, ασημογαλακτίζει, όπως το χάος
Ρουφώντας το λαδί, συμβαίνει, ωχρό ναυάγιο κι έκθαμβο,
Ένας πνιγμένος σκεφτικός ν΄αργοκυλά και πράος.

Κι όπου το μπλάβο αλλάζει στο ηλιοφώς αιφνίδια
Κι οίστροι κοχλάζουν και ρυθμοί, πάθη αβυσσαία,
Ύπουλος έρωτας –φωτιά που κρυφοκαίει επίβουλη
Πλιο απ΄τ ΄αψέντι φθαρτική κι απ΄των κρουστών τον ήχο ακραία.

Ξέρω ουρανούς απώτατους εγώ, που αστραποκαίγονται,
Τυφώνες, ρέματα, το βράδυ, κι αχ! Την αμφιλύκη
-έναν από ξαπολυμένες περιστέρες θρίαμβο-
κι ό,τι που ως ήττα εγέλασε το Νου, έγραψε ο νους μου νίκη.

Είδ΄από φρίκη μυστική τον ήλιο, λες κατάστικτο
Κρυστάλλους μωβ, μακρότατους, το φως του να γλυκαίνει
Κι είδα το κύμα, πάντα υποκριτή πανάρχαιου δράματος,
Τα νουφαρένια ρίγη του καμπύλες να μακραίνει.

Την πράσινη κι έκθαμβα χιονισμένη νύχταν έδεσα
-του ονείρου- τ΄αργό φιλί που ανέβαινε στα πόντια μάτια,
το γλαυκωχρό των ωδικών φωσφόρων ξύπνημα και των
αν απαγόρευτων κι ανείπωτων χυμών τα μονοπάτια.

Mήνες με καταχτύπησαν στις ξέρες –σ΄απαυτη έφοδο-
Τα κύματα που υστερικοί κι ηλίθιοι χυμούσαν ταύροι
Δεν πρόσπεσα στη Μαριάμ –τάχα πως στ΄άγια πέλματα
Υποταγή, του πόντου που άσθμαινε, το ρύγχος θα ΄βρει.

Σ΄ανείκαστες Φλωρίδες ηύρε η πλώρη μου, που αρμόνιζαν ανθούς
Με ουράνια τόξα –στους ορίζοντες που ετέντωναν
Σαν χαλινοί στα γαλανά κοπάδια των κυμάτων.

Είδα πελώριες κόφες έλη που έβραζαν και δέσμιο,
Στα βούρλα, έναν πελώριο Λεβιάθαν να σαπίζουν,
Σε τέλειαν άπνοια νεροποντές, σε βάραθρα
Τοπία χαμένα να κυλούν και να καταρρακτίζουν.

Μαργάρινα νερά καμένους ουρανούς, φθίνοντες
Ήλιους, ξεβράσματα απεχθή σ΄ακρόγιαλα χαώδη,
Κι από ραιβά κλαριά γιγάντια φίδια να γκρεμίζονται
Λωβά από κοριούς αφανισμένα και δυσώδη.

Σε μάτια παιδικά πως θάδειχνα χρυσόψαρα
ψάρια ωδικά ή πετούμενα -που αυτό το πλάτος γέμει.
Τ΄άμυαλα ρίσκα μου ανθένιοι αφροί λικνίσανε
-αριά, φτερά οι άρρητοι μου εκόλλησαν άνεμοι,

Κι άλλοτε πάλι, η θάλασσα, ξεπνοημένος μάρτυρας
σε πόλους και σε ζώνες, πράυνε λυγμικά σάλο και δίνη
ανθοί σκιών μ΄έγλειφαν τρυφερά, ωχρές διαφάνειες
ζωής - κι ως θήλυ εγώ στα γόνατα είχ΄απαλύνει.

Στεριά καυγάδες οπού λίκνιζα κιτρινομάτικων
πουλιών κρωγμούς και κόπρο, αρμένιζα σπολλάτη
μπρουμτισμένων ναυαγών, που ανάμεσα γλιστρούσαν
στα σάπια ξάρτια μου στερνό γυρεύοντας κρεββάτι.

Κάτω απ΄ορμίσκων φιόρδ πλοκαμωτά λοιπόν, ναυάγια
που εχάθη σ΄άφτερο, παντέρμο αιθέρα κι αντίκρυ μου,
ζητώντας με, της Χάνσας τα καράβια δε θα βγαίνανε
να βρούν τ΄ολομέθυστο με πόντο αψύ σκαρί μου,

Ελεύθερο, σε αχλύ από μωβ, τέτοιο αλκοόλ αχνίζοντας,
λογχίζοντας των ουρανών που ανάβανε τον τοίχο,
βλέννες γαλάζιες σκεπαστό, μούσκλα από ήλιο -άνοστες
γλυκές, ποιηταί, για το ρηχό κι ελάσσονά σας στίχο-

εγώ, που πλέοντας στολισμένο γιορτινά, ιππόκαμποι
τεφροί, σανίδα που ετρελλάθηκε, μ΄ακολουθούσαν
και οι χαώδεις θόλοι εγκρέμιζαν -χοάνες διάπυρες-
απ΄των Ιούλιων τους ραβδισμούς που τους χτυπούσαν,

εγώ, που συγκλονιζόμουν σαν μ΄έφθαναν -απόηχος-
οι οργασμοί των Βεεμώθ, των Μαελστρόμ οι ρόχθοι
κι ύφανα αιώνιος το αχανές ταξιδευτής, ΝΙΚΗΘΗΚΑ:
την ευτελή γυρεύω σιγουριά σε μια ευρωπαίαν όχθη...

Είδ΄αστρικά αρχιπέλαγα, νησιά ουρανών παράφορων
μ΄ολάνοιχτη για ναυτικούς μι΄ανέγγιχτη πορεία:
Ω σφρίγος της επαύριον, σμήνος πουλιών ολόχρυσων
εδώ είν΄ο ζόφος -κι εσύ οκνείς που παίρνω σε εξορία;

Βέβαια επόνεσα πολύ, κι είν΄η αυγή αφόρητη
φαρμάκι ο ήλιος και στυγνή, καταστυγνή η σελήνη.
Ξάστερε νου που ενάρκωσεν έρως φτηνός φιλόψυχος,
στρέξε λοιπόν την πρωτινή, την αβυσσαία σαγήνη.

Τί στην Ευρώπη δε σε πάει ο πόνος, μα το δείλιασμα
-Σ΄άθλια γούρνα πας ν΄αγκιστρωθείς, σαν (ως βραδιάζει)
αυτές που τα μικρά παιδάκια ρίχνουν τη βαρκούλα τους
εύθραυστη λιμπέλουλα του Μαγιού που λες πως μοιάζει...

Δεν είναι πια, με τέτοια βύθιση αρρωστιάρικη,
ω αφροί, να ξαναβγω στου σταρομπάμπακου το ναύλο,
πώς ν΄αντιβγώ στων σημαιοστολισμών την έπαρση
και πώς σε βλέμα γεφυρών ατσάλινο ή φαύλο.

Arthur Rimbaud
(Ανάπλασις στην ελληνική: Σ.Γ.Γ. Παναγιωτάτος)

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

Απόσπασμα από το Stanza 6: The Nails (The Reader as an Accomplice)

So you will tear at me, without ever stopping, with your teeth and nails at the same time. I will adorn and embalm my body with perfumes and garlands for this expiatory holocaust; and together we shall suffer, I from being torn, you from tearing me... my mouth fused to yours. O blond-haired child, with your eyes so gentle, will you now do what I advise you? Despite yourself, I wish you to do it, and you will set my conscience at rest." And in saying this, you will have wronged a human being and be loved by that same being: therein lies the greatest conceivable happiness. Later, you could take him to the hospital, for the crippled boy will be in no condition to earn a living. They will proclaim you a hero, and centuries from now, laurel crowns and gold medals will cover your bare feet on your ancient iconic tomb. O you, whose name I will not inscribe upon this page consecrated to the sanctity of crime, I know your forgiveness was as boundless as the universe. But look, I'm still here!

Dylan Thomas
After the Funeral

(In Memory of Anne Jones)

After the funeral, mule praises, brays,
Windshake of sailshaped ears, muffle-toed tap
Tap happily of one peg in the thick
Grave's foot, blinds down the lids, the teeth in black,
The spittled eyes, the salt ponds in the sleeves,
Morning smack of the spade that wakes up sleep,
Shakes a desolate boy who slits his throat
In the dark of the coffin and sheds dry leaves,
That breaks one bone to light with a judgment clout,
After the feast of tear-stuffed time and thistles
In a room with a stuffed fox and a stale fern,
I stand, for this memorial's sake, alone
In the snivelling hours with dead, humped Ann
Whose hooded, fountain heart once fell in puddles
Round the parched worlds of Wales and drowned each sun
(Though this for her is a monstrous image blindly
Magnified out of praise; her death was a still drop;
She would not have me sinking in the holy
Flood of her heart's fame; she would lie dumb and deep
And need no druid of her broken body) .
But I, Ann's bard on a raise hearth, call all
The seas to service that her wood-tongued virtue
Babble like a bellbuoy over the hymning heads,
Bow down the walls of the ferned and foxy woods
That her love sing and swing through a brown chapel,
Bless her bent spirit with four, crossing birds,
Her flesh was meek as milk, but this skyward statue
With the wild breast and blessed and giant skull
Is carved from her in a room with a wet window
In a fiercely mourning house in a crooked year.
I know her scrubbed and sour humble hands
Lie with religion in their cramp, her threadbare
Whisper in a damp word, her wits dried hollow,
Her fist of a face died clenched on a round pain;
And sculptured Ann is seventy years of stone.
These cloud-sopped, marble hands, this monumental
Argument of the hewn voice, gesture and psalm,
Storm me forever over her grave until
The stuffed lung of the fox twitch and cry Love
And the strutting fern lay seeds on the black sill.

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

All that I owe the fellows of the grave
And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates
Lies in the fortuned bone, the flask of blood,
Like senna stirs along the ravaged roots.
O all I owe is all the flesh inherits,
My fathers' loves that pull upon my nerves,
My sisters tears that sing upon my head
My brothers' blood that salts my open wounds

Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop,
My fallen filled, that had the hint of death,
Heir to the telling senses that alone
Acquaint the flesh with a remembered itch,
I round this heritage as rounds the sun
His winy sky, and , as the candles moon,
Cast light upon my weather. I am heir
To women who have twisted their last smile,
To children who were suckled on a plague,
To young adorers dying on a kiss.
All such disease I doctor in my blood,
And all such love's a shrub sown in the breath.

Then look, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune
And browse upon the postures of the dead;
All night and day I eye the ragged globe
Through periscopes rightsighted from the grave;
All night and day I wander in these same
Wax clothes that wax upon the ageing ribs;
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
Then look, my heart, upon the scarlet trove,
And look, my grain, upon the falling wheat;
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

Altarwise by owl-light in the half-way house
The gentleman lay graveward with his furies;
Abaddon in the hangnail cracked from Adam,
And, from his fork, a dog among the fairies,
The atlas-eater with a jaw for news,
Bit out the mandrake with to-morrows scream.
Then, penny-eyed, that gentlemen of wounds,
Old cock from nowheres and the heaven's egg,
With bones unbuttoned to the half-way winds,
Hatched from the windy salvage on one leg,
Scraped at my cradle in a walking word
That night of time under the Christward shelter:
I am the long world's gentlemen, he said,
And share my bed with Capricorn and Cancer.

Death is all metaphors, shape in one history;
The child that sucketh long is shooting up,
The planet-ducted pelican of circles
Weans on an artery the genders strip;
Child of the short spark in a shapeless country
Soon sets alight a long stick from the cradle;
The horizontal cross-bones of Abaddon,
You by the cavern over the black stairs,
Rung bone and blade, the verticals of Adam,
And, manned by midnight, Jacob to the stars.
Hairs of your head, then said the hollow agent,
Are but the roots of nettles and feathers
Over the groundowrks thrusting through a pavement
And hemlock-headed in the wood of weathers.

First there was the lamb on knocking knees
And three dead seasons on a climbing grave
That Adam's wether in the flock of horns,
Butt of the tree-tailed worm that mounted Eve,
Horned down with skullfoot and the skull of toes
On thunderous pavements in the garden of time;
Rip of the vaults, I took my marrow-ladle
Out of the wrinkled undertaker's van,
And, Rip Van Winkle from a timeless cradle,
Dipped me breast-deep in the descending bone;
The black ram, shuffling of the year, old winter,
Alone alive among his mutton fold,
We rung our weathering changes on the ladder,
Said the antipodes, and twice spring chimed.

What is the metre of the dictionary?
The size of genesis? the short spark's gender?
Shade without shape? the shape of the Pharaohs echo?
(My shape of age nagging the wounded whisper.)
Which sixth of wind blew out the burning gentry?
(Questions are hunchbacks to the poker marrow.)
What of a bamboo man amomg your acres?
Corset the boneyards for a crooked boy?
Button your bodice on a hump of splinters,
My camel's eyes will needle through the shroud.
Loves reflection of the mushroom features,
Still snapped by night in the bread-sided field,
Once close-up smiling in the wall of pictures,
Arc-lamped thrown back upon the cutting flood.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

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 clen 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;
Through 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

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

On almost the incendiary eve
Of several near deaths,
When one at the great least of your best loved
And always known must leave
Lions and fires of his flying breath,
Of your immortal friends
Who'd raise the organs of the counted dust
To shoot and sing your praise,
One who called deepest down shall hold his peace
That cannot sink or cease
Endlessly to his wound
In many married London's estranging grief.

On almost the incendiary eve
When at your lips and keys,
Locking, unlocking, the murdered strangers weave,
One who is most unknown,
Your polestar neighbour, sun of another street,
Will dive up to his tears.
He'll bathe his raining blood in the male sea
Who strode for your own dead
And wind his globe out of your water thread
And load the throats of shells
with every cry since light
Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.

On almost the incendiary eve
Of deaths and entrances,
When near and strange wounded on London's waves
Have sought your single grave,
One enemy, of many, who knows well
Your heart is luminous
In the watched dark, quivering through locks and caves,
Will pull the thunderbolts
To shut the sun, plunge, mount your darkened keys
And sear just riders back,
Until that one loved least
Looms the last Samson of your zodiac.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

I have longed to move away
From the hissing of the spent lie
And the old terrors' continual cry
Growing more terrible as the day
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
I have longed to move away
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the air
And ghostly echoes on paper,
And the thunder of calls and notes.

I have longed to move away but am afraid;
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
The parting of hat from hair,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
Shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
Half convention and half lie.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

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 that 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.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

Too proud to die; broken and blind he died
The darkest way, and did not turn away,
A cold kind man brave in his narrow pride

On that darkest day, Oh, forever may
He lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
Hill, under the grass, in love, and there grow

Young among the long flocks, and never lie lost
Or still all the numberless days of his death, though
Above all he longed for his mother's breast

Which was rest and dust, and in the kind ground
The darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed.
Let him find no rest but be fathered and found,

I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,
In the muted house, one minute before
Noon, and night, and light. the rivers of the dead

Veined his poor hand I held, and I saw
Through his unseeing eyes to the roots of the sea.
(An old tormented man three-quarters blind,

I am not too proud to cry that He and he
Will never never go out of my mind.
All his bones crying, and poor in all but pain,

Being innocent, he dreaded that he died
Hating his God, but what he was was plain:
An old kind man brave in his burning pride.

The sticks of the house were his; his books he owned.
Even as a baby he had never cried;
Nor did he now, save to his secret wound.

Out of his eyes I saw the last light glide.
Here among the liught of the lording sky
An old man is with me where I go

Walking in the meadows of his son's eye
On whom a world of ills came down like snow.
He cried as he died, fearing at last the spheres'

Last sound, the world going out without a breath:
Too proud to cry, too frail to check the tears,
And caught between two nights, blindness and death.

O deepest wound of all that he should die
On that darkest day. oh, he could hide
The tears out of his eyes, too proud to cry.

Until I die he will not leave my side.)

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

From love's first fever to her plague, from the soft second
And to the hollow minute of the womb,
From the unfolding to the scissored caul,
The time for breast and the green apron age
When no mouth stirred about the hanging famine,
All world was one, one windy nothing,
My world was christened in a stream of milk.
And earth and sky were as one airy hill.
The sun and mood shed one white light.

From the first print of the unshodden foot, the lifting
Hand, the breaking of the hair,
From the first scent of the heart, the warning ghost,
And to the first dumb wonder at the flesh,
The sun was red, the moon was grey,
The earth and sky were as two mountains meeting.

The body prospered, teeth in the marrowed gums,
The growing bones, the rumour of the manseed
Within the hallowed gland, blood blessed the heart,
And the four winds, that had long blown as one,
Shone in my ears the light of sound,
Called in my eyes the sound of light.
And yellow was the multiplying sand,
Each golden grain spat life into its fellow,
Green was the singing house.

The plum my mother picked matured slowly,
The boy she dropped from darkness at her side
Into the sided lap of light grew strong,
Was muscled, matted, wise to the crying thigh,
And to the voice that, like a voice of hunger,
Itched in the noise of wind and sun.

And from the first declension of the flesh
I learnt man's tongue, to twist the shapes of thoughts
Into the stony idiom of the brain,
To shade and knit anew the patch of words
Left by the dead who, in their moonless acre,
Need no word's warmth.
The root of tongues ends in a spentout cancer,
That but a name, where maggots have their X.

I learnt the verbs of will, and had my secret;
The code of night tapped on my tongue;
What had been one was many sounding minded.

One wound, one mind, spewed out the matter,
One breast gave suck the fever's issue;
From the divorcing sky I learnt the double,
The two-framed globe that spun into a score;
A million minds gave suck to such a bud
As forks my eye;
Youth did condense; the tears of spring
Dissolved in summer and the hundred seasons;
One sun, one manna, warmed and fed.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

How shall my animal
Whose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull,
Vessel of abscesses and exultation's shell,
Endure burial under the spelling wall,
The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face,
Who should be furious,
Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus,
Roaring, crawling, quarrel
With the outside weathers,
The natural circle of the discovered skies
Draw down to its weird eyes?

How shall it magnetize,
Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blaze
That melts the lionhead's heel and horseshoe of the heart
A brute land in the cool top of the country days
To trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile,
Love and labour and kill
In quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sprout
The black, burst sea rejoice,
The bowels turn turtle,
Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particle
The parched and raging voice?

Fishermen of mermen
Creep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pin
With bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein,
Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-bound
Curl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone,
Trace out a tentacle,
Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and weed
To clasp my fury on ground
And clap its great blood down;
Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas
Or poise the day on a horn.

Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn,
Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frost
Clack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars drops
With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth
Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,
Clips short the gesture of breath.
Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut,
And roll with the knocked earth:
Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.
You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,
And dug your grave in my breast.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

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.

I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel
Rammed in the marching heart, hole
In the stitched wound and clotted wind, muzzled
Death on the mouth that ate the gas.

Sharp in my second death I marked the hills, harvest
Of hemlock and the blades, rust
My blood upon the tempered dead, forcing
My second struggling from the grass.

And power was contagious in my birth, second
Rise of the skeleton and
Rerobing of the naked ghost. Manhood
Spat up from the resuffered pain.

I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen
Twice in the feeding sea, grown
Stale of Adam's brine until, vision
Of new man strength, I seek the sun.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

I fellowed sleep who kissed me in the brain,
Let fall the tear of time; the sleeper's eye,
Shifting to light, turned on me like a moon.
So, planning-heeled, I flew along my man
And dropped on dreaming and the upward sky.

I fled the earth and, naked, climbed the weather,
Reaching a second ground far from the stars;
And there we wept I and a ghostly other,
My mothers-eyed, upon the tops of trees;
I fled that ground as lightly as a feather.

'My fathers' globe knocks on its nave and sings.'
'This that we tread was, too, your father's land.'
'But this we tread bears the angelic gangs
Sweet are their fathered faces in their wings.'
'These are but dreaming men. Breathe, and they fade.'

Faded my elbow ghost, the mothers-eyed,
As, blowing on the angels, I was lost
On that cloud coast to each grave-grabbing shade;
I blew the dreaming fellows to their bed
Where still they sleep unknowing of their ghost.

Then all the matter of the living air
Raised up a voice, and, climbing on the words,
I spelt my vision with a hand and hair,
How light the sleeping on this soily star,
How deep the waking in the worlded clouds.

There grows the hours' ladder to the sun,
Each rung a love or losing to the last,
The inches monkeyed by the blood of man.
And old, mad man still climbing in his ghost,
My fathers' ghost is climbing in the rain.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
And God walked there who was a fiddling warden
And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.

When we were strangers to the guided seas,
A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
And when the moon rose windily it was
Black as the beast and paler than the cross.

We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,
Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?
Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer
The supper and knives of a mood.
In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year
That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms,
An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires,
Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food,
Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair
In a wind that plucked a goose,
Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs,
Rounds to look at the red, wagged root.
Because there stands, one story out of the bum city,
That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea
Secretly in statuary,
Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street,
Not spin to stare at an old year
Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries
Like the mauled pictures of boys?
The salt person and blasted place
I furnish with the meat of a fable.
If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble
An upright man in the antipodes
Or spray-based and rock-chested sea:
Over the past table I repeat this present grace.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

Lie still, sleep becalmed, sufferer with the wound
In the throat, burning and turning. All night afloat
On the silent sea we have heard the sound
That came from the wound wrapped in the salt sheet.

Under the mile off moon we trembled listening
To the sea sound flowing like blood from the loud wound
And when the salt sheet broke in a storm of singing
The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind.

Open a pathway through the slow sad sail,
Throw wide to the wind the gates of the wandering boat
For my voyage to begin to the end of my wound,
We heard the sea sound sing, we saw the salt sheet tell.
Lie still, sleep becalmed, hide the mouth in the throat,
Or we shall obey, and ride with you through the drowned.

Dylan Thomas

"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"

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