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My World Is Pyramid Analysis

Author: Poetry of Dylan Thomas Type: Poetry Views: 192

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IHalf of the fellow father as he doubles

His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,

Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles

To-morrow's diver in her horny milk,

Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone

Bolt for the salt unborn.The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled

Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,

The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled

The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,

For half of love was planted in the lost,

And the unplanted ghost.The broken halves are fellowed in a cripple,

The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,

Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble

Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,

And stake the sleepers in the savage grave

That the vampire laugh.The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded

The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,

Sucking the dark, kissed on the cyanide,

And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,

Rotating halves are horning as they drill

The arterial angel.What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble

The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,

And prick the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.

The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,

The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew

Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.IIMy world is pyramid. The padded mummer

Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt

Incising summer.

My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,

I scrape through resin to a starry bone

And a blood parhelion.My world is cypress, and an English valley.

I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards

Red in an Austrian volley.

I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,

Screwing their bowels from a hill of bones,

Cry Eloi to the guns.My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.

The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,

Drip on my dead house garden.

Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth

The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn

Through the Atlantic corn.The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel

On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,

Bearding the unborn devil,

Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.

The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide

Binding my angel's hood.Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?

I blow the stammel feather in the vein.

The loin is glory in a working pallor.

My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,

The secret child, I sift about the sea

Dry in the half-tracked thigh.


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