Through silky grass and waters blue
Do the joints click into
Shapes of knowing wing or bone
Stretching, enchanted
And nerve and vein hums, pulses
An ancient tune between
Breathless heaves
The trembles of heartbeats
For a simple reflex of a finger to lips

Dylan Thomas, drunk-*** poet,
uncorked nouns, imbibed the verb
downed six pints and thought about it
sitting unsteadily on the curb:

“Winds of word unleashed in drink
will fill to the full my poem’s sails…
though it may totter on the brink,
my drunken boat defies the gales.”

Floating on wreckage to distant shores,
our ***** bard beheld the deep
where whales spout forth their lyric stores
while the inebriate muses weep.

This postwar lush and lyrical fad,
was the biggest pint in the bar called Wales.
While not the worst, his verse was bad…
(but better after seven ales).

Heno, ‘dw i’n syllu,
Heno, ti’n gwingo,
Heno, ‘dw i’n gwintyllu
Yr awel sy’n ddi-flino.

Heno, ti adra,
A’r hiraeth wedi cilio.
Heno, ‘dw i adra,
A’r atgof yn fy mlingo.

Heno, does na’m newid
i be’ ti’n deimlo,
i be ‘dw i’n gofio.
Heno, nid oes addewid,
Heno, nid oes ni.

rwyf wrth fy modd i chi.
rwy'n credo mewn chi.
aros yn gryf.
gadw i fynd.
peidiwch a^ rhol'r gorau iddi.
i chi.
yn caeleu.
*hardd.