(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953 / Swansea / Wales)

Before An Old Painting Of The Crucifixion

I ponder how He died, despairing once.
I've heard the cry subside in vacant skies,
In clearings where no other was. Despair,
Which, in the vibrant wake of utterance,
Resides in desolate calm, preoccupies,
Though it is still. There is no solace there.

That calm inhabits wilderness, the sea,
And where no peace inheres but solitude;
Near death it most impends. It was for Him,
Absurd and public in His agony,
Inscrutably itself, nor misconstrued,
Nor metaphrased in art or pseudonym:

A vague contagion. Old, the mural fades...
Reminded of the fainter sea I scanned,
I recollect: How mute in constancy!
I could not leave the wall of palisades
Till cormorants returned my eyes on land.
The mural but implies eternity:

Not death, but silence after death is change.
Judean hills, the endless afternoon,
The farther groves and arbors seasonless
But fix the mind within the moment's range.
Where evening would obscure our sorrow soon,
There shines too much a sterile loveliness.

No imprecisions of commingled shade,
No shimmering deceptions of the sun,
Herein no semblances remark the cold
Unhindered swell of time, for time is stayed.
The Passion wanes into oblivion,
And time and timelessness confuse, I'm told.

These centuries removed from either fact
Have lain upon the critical expanse
And been of little consequence. The void
Is calendared in stone; the human act,
Outrageous, is in vain. The hours advance
Like flecks of foam borne landward and destroyed.

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Comments (12)

The creation, 'All that shapes from the caul and suckle, ' Then the struggle of life, 'Square in these worlds the mortal circle' These lines alone, but also reflected elsewhere in the poem, depict Man's lot and strife for understanding and meaning in life.
Another poem on life & death from the brilliant, talented but tortured mind of Dylan Thomas, who lived fast and died very young. One wonders if this poem was written during one of his heavy drinking binges.
Ghost with her ghost, contagious man With the womb of his shapeless people. All that shapes from the caul and suckle, Nice lines, liked them.
Flower, flower the people's fusion, O light in zenith, the coupled bud, And the flame in the flesh's vision. Out of the sea, the drive of oil, Socket and grave, the brassy blood, Flower, flower, all all and all..... loved these lines. Beautiful poem shared.
Such a great write by Dylan Thomas....
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