BELATED PALINODE FOR DYLAN THOMAS, by LAWRENCE FERLINGHETI, USA

Portrait of DYLAN THOMAS, by OLIVER LAKE, UK

(copyright of the artist)

LINK: http://artflock.com/artist/lakeillustration/

BELATED PALINODE FOR DYLAN THOMAS

In Wales at Laugharne at last I stand beside
     his cliff-perched writing shed
        above the coursing waters
           where the hawk hangs still
             above the cockle-strewn shingle
Where he walked in a glory of all his days
          (before the weather turned around)
And aie! aie! a waterbird far away
        cries and cries again
           over St. Johns Hill
And in his tilted boathouse now
       a tape of himself is playing —
         his lush voice
              his plush voice
                   his posh accent
                         (too BBC-fulsome, cried the Welsh)
                              now echoes through his little
                                      upstairs room
And aie! aie!
         echo the waterbirds once again
Beyond his sounding shed
      a fig tree hides the sea
          A fishboat heeled over
            a grebe afloat far out
              a coracle abandoned
                a rusted coaler out of Cardiff still
                  a bold green headland lost in sun
Beyond which lie (across an ocean and a continent)
       San Francisco’s white wood houses
             and a poet’s sun-bleached cottage
               on Bolinas’ far lagoon
                   with its wind-torn Little Mesa
                       (so very like St. Johns Hill)
A single kestrel soars over
      riding the salt wind
          ‘high tide and the heron’s call’
                                                              still echoing
                   (Aie! aie! it calls and calls again)
As in his listing boathouse now
       his great recorded voice runs out
         (grave as a gravedigger in his grave)
              leaving a sounding void of light
                 for poets and herons to fill
(Drowned down in New York’s White Horse Tavern
       he went not gentle into his good night)
And Far West poets calling still
       over St. Johns Hill
              to the loveliest poet of all our days
                   sweet singer of Swansea
                          lushed singer of Laugharne
                               Dylan of all our days

— Lawrence Ferlinghetti, These Are My Rivers

(reprinted by permission of LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI)
— Lawrence Ferlinghetti, These Are My Rivers

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