Song at the Year's Turning
Shelley dreamed it. Now the dream decays.
The props crumble; the familiar ways
Are stale with tears trodden underfoot.
The heart's flower withers at the root.
Bury it then, in history's sterile dust.
The slow years shall tame your tawny lust.
Love deceived him; what is there to say
The mind brought you by a better way
To this despair? Lost in the world's wood
You cannot stanch the bright menstrual blood.
The earth sickens; under naked boughs
The frost comes to barb your broken vows.
Is there blessing? Light's peculiar grace
In cold splendour robes this tortured place
For strange marriage. Voices in the wind
Weave a garland where a mortal sinned.
Winter rots you; who is there to blame?
The new grass shall purge you in its flame.
Commentary
New Year’s Day guest poem sent in by Manan
I cannot help but think of this poem every time the New Year comes around. It’s in Thomas’ old style, which he later abandoned for a more free-verse kind of approach. What astounds me most about Thomas’ poetry is his ability to conjure up metaphors seemingly at will.
I guess I’ll leave it that.
— Manan