January 1, 2005

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.

         -- Dylan Thomas

Posted by Vanderleun at January 1, 2005 11:34 PM
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"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.

I've participated in bar fights in the White Horse Tavern.
Dingy place really. Dylan Thomas
picked a bad way to go, a bad way to phrase and
a bad table. The one in the back corner. Few
windows in the WH but enough to draw out even
the most morose to their light, on a cloudy
day. Legend has it his ghost resides there yet,
I suspect the only leavings of his corporeal
being are the sodden words of his poetry. His
ghost is an empty shot glass. Yo, Poe some mo'.

Posted by: Steel Turman at January 2, 2005 2:20 AM

I've participated in bar fights in the White Horse Tavern.
Dingy place really. Dylan Thomas
picked a bad way to go, a bad way to phrase and
a bad table. The one in the back corner. Few
windows in the WHT but enough to draw out even
the most morose to their light, on a cloudy
day. Legend has it his ghost resides there yet,
I suspect the only leavings of his corporeal
being are the sodden words of his poetry. His
ghost is an empty shot glass. Yo, Poe some mo'.

Posted by: Steel Turman at January 2, 2005 2:24 AM

Whoops.

Posted by: Steel Turman at January 2, 2005 2:25 AM

having scribed all my days at wits end
and never weary of my solemn oaths
for not much time was wasted learning
that from which wealth sheltered grows
appreciation for that which defies modernity
and magicked in the idle minds of dowagers
some love, some insight born of interpretation
some wiley verse or lucky alliteration
'twas not my inheritance my darkened visage
bore no elevation but natural survival's science
i collected no coins but protected my loins
unaffected, unjoined by finer fellows
but buffeted by hot air'd boffins bellows
barn born, no wise men to my cradle came
and unadorned no noble spoke nor knew my name.

Posted by: Cobb at January 2, 2005 10:30 PM

Having scribed all my days at wit's end
I never wearied of my solemn oaths,
For my time was not wasted learning
That from which wealth-sheltered shies.
Of appreciation for all modernity defies ,
Thrice magicked in the minds of dowagers,
some love or insight was of my interpretation born.
These not my inheritance. My darkened visage
Bore no elevation, but that which brute survival sang.
Unaffected, unjoined by finer fellows,
And buffeted by hot air'd boffins' bellows,
I collected no coins, but my loins protected.
Barn born, no wise men to my cradle came,
No noble spoke, nor pale assassin knew, my name.

Posted by: Gerard Van der Leun at January 2, 2005 11:13 PM

I sat under the tables there at the White Horse Tavern as a young boy or 5 years or so listening to Dylan Thomas. He would stand on top of the tables while my parents and all of their Beat friends sat around drinking and listening to his oratory.

Too young then to really know, but old enough now to remember fondly.
David Godden

Posted by: David Godden at January 3, 2005 2:55 PM