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 |   Entries to The Daily Poem Contest. |
| Homage à Dylan Thomas Oh, that I were ever fit to write the boots Of that damn Welshman and his words like spun gold. Spare me, I am merely English, My head unfilled with sprites and fairies, My dealings with my life a dreary matter, Without your dreams and memories, your facility With worlds ineffable. You, master of the paintbrush verse, Your casual stroke that reaches deep to call upon our hungers unimagined,. You’re that Welsh coal miner, Black-faced, black-armed and body startling white, In tin tub bathing before the blazing fire, Reaching in your clouded water to find the brush, Washing the grime from our faces And scrubbing our emotions Till we stand with you on some wind-torn hill, Fresh, new, reborn with your vision unlimited, The whispering horizon our home forever. My solid words betray me, Anglo Saxon to the core, My need for logic shuts me from your mythic halls, But I know my debt and I’ll forever strive At repayment for the sights you’ve given. Line Count: 23 Free Verse (an attempt to mimic the master) For The Daily Poem, July 23 2020. Winner. Prompt: Tell me about why one of your favourite poets is one of your favourite poets. Possible bonus points if you tell me about it while emulating their style. Just sayin’. https://poets.org/poem/fern-hill |
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