Ceremony after a Fire Raid

December 29, 2006 at 1:46 pm 3 comments

Dylan Thomas

Listen (the poet reads)

I

Myselves
The grievers
Grieve
Among the street burned to tireless death
A child of a few hours
With its kneading mouth
Charred on the black breast of the grave
The mother dug, and its arms full of fires.

Begin
With singing
Sing
Darkness kindled back into beginning
When the caught tongue nodded blind,
A star was broken
Into the centuries of the child
Myselves grieve now, and miracles cannot atone.

Forgive
Us forgive
Us
Your death that myselves the believers
May hold it in a great flood
Till the blood shall spurt,
And the dust shall sing like a bird
As the grains blow, as your death grows, through our heart.

Crying
Your dying
Cry,
Child beyond cockcrow, by the fire-dwarfed
Street we chant the flying sea
In the body bereft.
Love is the last light spoken. Oh
Seed of sons in the loin of the black husk left.

II

I know not whether
Adam or Eve, the adorned holy bullock
Or the white ewe lamb
Or the chosen virgin
Laid in her snow
On the altar of London,
Was the first to die
In the cinder of the little skull,
O bride and bride groom
O Adam and Eve together
Lying in the lull
Under the sad breast of the headstone
White as the skeleton
Of the garden of Eden.

I know the legend
Of Adam and Eve is never for a second
Silent in my service
Over the dead infants
Over the one
Child who was priest and servants,
Word, singers, and tongue
In the cinder of the little skull,
Who was the serpent’s
Night fall and the fruit like a sun,
Man and woman undone,
Beginning crumbled back to darkness
Bare as the nurseries
Of the garden of wilderness.

III

Into the organpipes and steeples
Of the luminous cathedrals,
Into the weathercocks’ molten mouths
Rippling in twelve-winded circles,
Into the dead clock burning the hour
Over the urn of sabbaths
Over the whirling ditch of daybreak
Over the sun’s hovel and the slum of fire
And the golden pavements laid in requiems,
Into the bread in a wheatfield of flames,
Into the wine burning like brandy,
The masses of the sea
The masses of the sea under
The masses of the infant-bearing sea
Erupt, fountain, and enter to utter forever
Glory glory glory
The sundering ultimate kingdom of genesis’ thunder.

Who but Dylan Thomas could write a poem so visionary, so mercilessly vivid? Who but Dylan Thomas could write a line like “the golden pavement laid in requiems / Into the bread in a wheatfield of flames”?

Thomas’ Ceremony rises like a glorious phoenix from the ashes of World War II London – a bird of incredible beauty, but made entirely of fire – so that to let the smallest feather of an image touch you is to be singed forever. This is what Thomas does best – marries the formal to the raw intensity of pain, creating poems that sing as they suffer, converting language into hallucination. It would be easy to sterilise the horror of the Blitz by converting it into a formal rite, but there is nothing antiseptic about Thomas’s poem, it is awash in gore and flame, staying true to these elements even as it transfigures them.

This is the real Fire Sermon.

[falstaff]

Entry filed under: Dylan Thomas, English, Falstaff, War Poetry. Tags: .

A Note on War Poetry Returning, we hear the larks

3 Comments Add your own

  • 1. speakinenglish  |  December 29, 2006 at 7:04 pm

    I particularly, am amazed with the depth of this poem. Thank you for sharing.

    David Hng

    Reply
  • 2. Revealed  |  January 3, 2007 at 3:43 pm

    I like the whole ‘beginning..darkness, darkness..beginning’ play. Imagery is the key, isn’t it?
    “…and its arms full of fire”. Wah! Forces one to imagine what one would rather not.

    Reply
  • […] tribute to the children who lost their lives in the war, with a quote from Dylan Thomas’ poem Ceremony after a fire raid “The grievers grieve Among the street burned to tireless death A child of a few hours With […]

    Reply

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