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I, In My Intricate Image Analysis



Author: poem of Dylan Thomas Type: poem Views: 8

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I



I, in my intricate image, stride on two levels,

Forged in man's minerals, the brassy orator

Laying my ghost in metal,

The scales of this twin world tread on the double,

My half ghost in armour hold hard in death's corridor,

To my man-iron sidle.



Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels,

Bright as her spinning-wheels, the colic season

Worked on a world of petals;

She threads off the sap and needles, blood and bubble

Casts to the pine roots, raising man like a mountain

Out of the naked entrail.



Beginning with doom in the ghost, and the springing marvels,

Image of images, my metal phantom

Forcing forth through the harebell,

My man of leaves and the bronze root, mortal, unmortal,

I, in my fusion of rose and male motion,

Create this twin miracle.



This is the fortune of manhood: the natural peril,

A steeplejack tower, bonerailed and masterless,

No death more natural;

Thus the shadowless man or ox, and the pictured devil,

In seizure of silence commit the dead nuisance.

The natural parallel.



My images stalk the trees and the slant sap's tunnel,

No tread more perilous, the green steps and spire

Mount on man's footfall,

I with the wooden insect in the tree of nettles,

In the glass bed of grapes with snail and flower,

Hearing the weather fall.



Intricate manhood of ending, the invalid rivals,

Voyaging clockwise off the symboled harbour,

Finding the water final,

On the consumptives' terrace taking their two farewells,

Sail on the level, the departing adventure,

To the sea-blown arrival.



II



They climb the country pinnacle,

Twelve winds encounter by the white host at pasture,

Corner the mounted meadows in the hill corral;

They see the squirrel stumble,

The haring snail go giddily round the flower,

A quarrel of weathers and trees in the windy spiral.



As they dive, the dust settles,

The cadaverous gravels, falls thick and steadily,

The highroad of water where the seabear and mackerel

Turn the long sea arterial

Turning a petrol face blind to the enemy

Turning the riderless dead by the channel wall.



(Death instrumental,

Splitting the long eye open, and the spiral turnkey,

Your corkscrew grave centred in navel and nipple,

The neck of the nostril,

Under the mask and the ether, they making bloody

The tray of knives, the antiseptic funeral;



Bring out the black patrol,

Your monstrous officers and the decaying army,

The sexton sentinel, garrisoned under thistles,

A cock-on-a-dunghill

Crowing to Lazarus the morning is vanity,

Dust be your saviour under the conjured soil.)



As they drown, the chime travels,

Sweetly the diver's bell in the steeple of spindrift

Rings out the Dead Sea scale;

And, clapped in water till the triton dangles,

Strung by the flaxen whale-weed, from the hangman's raft,

Hear they the salt glass breakers and the tongues of burial.



(Turn the sea-spindle lateral,

The grooved land rotating, that the stylus of lightning

Dazzle this face of voices on the moon-turned table,

Let the wax disk babble

Shames and the damp dishonours, the relic scraping.

These are your years' recorders. The circular world stands still.)



III



They suffer the undead water where the turtle nibbles,

Come unto sea-stuck towers, at the fibre scaling,

The flight of the carnal skull

And the cell-stepped thimble;

Suffer, my topsy-turvies, that a double angel

Sprout from the stony lockers like a tree on Aran.



Be by your one ghost pierced, his pointed ferrule,

Brass and the bodiless image, on a stick of folly

Star-set at Jacob's angle,

Smoke hill and hophead's valley,

And the five-fathomed Hamlet on his father's coral

Thrusting the tom-thumb vision up the iron mile.



Suffer the slash of vision by the fin-green stubble,

Be by the ships' sea broken at the manstring anchored

The stoved bones' voyage downward

In the shipwreck of muscle;

Give over, lovers, locking, and the seawax struggle,

Love like a mist or fire through the bed of eels.



And in the pincers of the boiling circle,

The sea and instrument, nicked in the locks of time,

My great blood's iron single

In the pouring town,

I, in a wind on fire, from green Adam's cradle,

No man more magical, clawed out the crocodile.



Man was the scales, the death birds on enamel,

Tail, Nile, and snout, a saddler of the rushes,

Time in the hourless houses

Shaking the sea-hatched skull,

And, as for oils and ointments on the flying grail,

All-hollowed man wept for his white apparel.



Man was Cadaver's masker, the harnessing mantle,

Windily master of man was the rotten fathom,

My ghost in his metal neptune

Forged in man's mineral.

This was the god of beginning in the intricate seawhirl,

And my images roared and rose on heaven's hill.






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