Wednesday 31st May 2017

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A Poem for his birthday 2017

65 years old tomorrow

After Dylan Thomas

Beans fill the field
They rise to his chest
No more grass needed
The pigs have all passed away
So the field is less visited
All around him chaos
His thoughts smothered
His eyes see black smoke rise
Lots of blood, whaling mothers
Crying fathers and young men’s anger
The women hold court and batter the red men blue
They humiliate they poke they prod
He doesn’t like these angry women
He doesn’t like these angry men
His fight is over
He can ride the free bus
But it will only take him so far
Spare him the pain
Spare him the misery
Cut the dead wood
Fill the green bin
Sgt Pepper may be number one
But that’s just silly
He wants to be left in peace holding the baby

John Bish 31st May 2017

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On His Twenty-Third Birthday

John Milton

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arriv’d so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu’th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev’n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav’n:
All is, if I have grace to use it so
As ever in my great Task-Master’s eye

when he was still a student at Cambridge. The sonnet shows a sense of dedication to a great mission, and the spirit of resignation to the Will of God. His life’s great ‘task’ requires inward ripeness. This is the passion of a great soul for noble achievement.
The poet says that time like a clever thief has very quickly and quietly taken away twenty three years of his life. The poet feels that time is fleeting but he still does not have to his credit some work of achievement as a poet.
In the next stanza, the poet says that his outward appearance might appear deceptive and go against the truth. He says that he has almost reached his manhood and has a mature look outwardly but has too little maturity of mind. The inner maturity of mind is more important for a poet than the physical one. That is why the poet envies his friends whose spiritual and physical developments go hand in hand.
The poet seems to be reconciling himself to the situation. He says that the inner maturity, in less or more quantity will surely come to him one day may be sooner or later. This would happen by the will of God. He shows his belief in God who decides all things for the best. The poet decides that when he acquires his intellect fully, he would use it for the service of God by composing religious poetry. This shows that the poet has high seriousness of purpose.

A Poem On His Birthday

Dylan Thomas
In the mustardseed sun,
By full tilt river and switchback sea
Where the cormorants scud,
In his house on stilts high among beaks
And palavers of birds
This sandgrain day in the bent bay’s grave
He celebrates and spurns
His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age;
Herons spire and spear.

Under and round him go
Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails,
Doing what they are told,
Curlews aloud in the congered waves
Work at their ways to death,
And the rhymer in the long tongued room,
Who tolls his birthday bell,
Toesl towards the ambush of his wounds;
Herons, stepple stemmed, bless.

In the thistledown fall,
He sings towards anguish; finches fly
In the claw tracks of hawks
On a seizing sky; small fishes glide
Through wynds and shells of drowned
Ship towns to pastures of otters. He
In his slant, racking house
And the hewn coils of his trade perceives
Herons walk in their shroud,

The livelong river’s robe
Of minnows wreathing around their prayer;
And far at sea he knows,
Who slaves to his crouched, eternal end
Under a serpent cloud,
Dolphins dyive in their turnturtle dust,
The rippled seals streak down
To kill and their own tide daubing blood
Slides good in the sleek mouth.

In a cavernous, swung
Wave’s silence, wept white angelus knells.
Thirty-five bells sing struck
On skull and scar where his lovews lie wrecked,
Steered by the falling stars.
And to-morrow weeps in a blind cage
Terror will rage apart
Before chains break to a hammer flame
And love unbolts the dark

And freely he goes lost
In the unknown, famous light of great
And fabulous, dear God.
Dark is a way and light is a place,
Heaven that never was
Nor will be ever is alwas true,
And, in that brambled void,
Plenty as blackberries in the woods
The dead grow for His joy.

There he might wander bare
With the spirits of the horseshoe bay
Or the stars’ seashore dead,
Marrow of eagles, the roots of whales
And wishbones of wild geese,
With blessed, unborn God and His Ghost,
And every soul His priest,
Gulled and chanter in youg Heaven’s fold
Be at cloud quaking peace,

But dark is a long way.
He, on the earth of the night, alone
With all the living, prays,
Who knows the rocketing wind will blow
The bones out of the hills,
And the scythed boulders bleed, and the last
Rage shattered waters kick
Masts and fishes to the still quick stars,
Faithlessly unto Him

Who is the light of old
And air shaped Heaven where souls grow wild
As horses in the foam:
Oh, let me midlife mourn by the shrined
And druid herons’ vows
The voyage to ruin I must run,
Dawn ships clouted aground,
Yet, though I cry with tumbledown tongue,
Count my blessings aloud:

Four elements and five
Senses, and man a spirit in love
Thangling through this spun slime
To his nimbus bell cool kingdom come
And the lost, moonshine domes,
And the sea that hides his secret selves
Deep in its black, base bones,
Lulling of spheres in the seashell flesh,
And this last blessing most,

That the closer I move
To death, one man through his sundered hulks,
The louder the sun blooms
And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults;
And every wave of the way
And gale I tackle, the whole world then,
With more triumphant faith
That ever was since the world was said,
Spins its morning of praise,

I hear the bouncing hills
Grow larked and greener at berry brown
Fall and the dew larks sing
Taller this thuderclap spring, and how
More spanned with angles ride
The mansouled fiery islands! Oh,
Holier then their eyes,
And my shining men no more alone
As I sail out to die

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