On Dylan Thomas’s ‘18 Poems’

This ‘bardic bombshell’ shook the clay of critics
A wordy revolution, without ostentation
18 poems immortal, bound slim with opal skin
Beating on the gates of fame, ‘mad with words’

A wordy revolution, without ostentation
The poet of past and future
Beating on the gates of fame, ‘mad with words’
This boy from Swansea, this sin from Eden

The poet of past and future
He toured Man, from womb to grave
This boy from Swansea, this sin from Eden
Pre-natal poetry raced decline

He toured Man, from womb to grave
By owl-light he wooed his ‘sullen art’
Pre-natal poetry raced decline
His eye unfailing

By owl-light he wooed his ‘sullen art’
He sunk under deeper folds of darkness
His eye unfailing
A daring lyricist, without peer

He sunk under deeper folds of darkness
He leeched frail lungs
A daring lyricist, without peer
Words blew like a Gower gale

He leeched frail lungs
18 poems immortal, bound slim with opal skin
Words blew like a Gower gale
His ‘bardic bombshell’ shook the clay of critics

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