these spindrift pages

If not on published pages,

then stirring in our heads.

If not the skill of Thomas,

then still,

despite the doubt,

our words,

our poem,

our spirit fed.

And so, we scratch that itch,

and find our way,

in search of droplets

from that gale-blown spray.

 

* Today’s offering was sparked by this master of his craft.

In My Craft or Sullen Art – Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art

Exercised in the still night

When only the moon rages

And the lovers lie abed

With all their griefs in their arms,

I labour by singing light

Not for ambition or bread

Or the strut and trade of charms

On the ivory stages

But for the common wages

Of their most secret heart.

 

Not for the proud man apart

From the raging moon I write

On these spindrift pages

Not for the towering dead

With their nightingales and psalms

But for the lovers, their arms

Round the grief of the ages,

Who pay no praise or wages

Nor heed my craft or art.

 

 


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