Dylan Thomas - If I Were Tickled By The Rub Of Love
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- Опубліковано 3 жов 2024
- Dylan Marlais Thomas (1914-1953)
Reading by Dylan Thomas
If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love
If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.
Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.
Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the loin
Nor the outspoken grave.
If I were tickled by the lovers' rub
That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts' toes.
This world is half the devil's and my own,
Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.
And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his sex
From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.
And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.
Dylan Thomas
one of my favorite poets and yet not the only way poetry should be.
This is what real poetry is.
Incredible.
This is what real poetry should be.
Thank you so much for posting this!
One of his better pieces... shame there aren't more of his performances on UA-cam ... died too young...
GOES HARD
If you play this backwards it’s still better than anything I could ever write
Words are your friend and your music and Dylan would have still been famous for his voice.
Predicted future
poem is great but he's hamming it up ngl
one person has an upside down computer. also, i'm deep
Who could give a thumbs down??? An Englishman jealous that Dylan Thomas created English spoken better than most English writers in English...O speak English as if it were Cymraeg and you have song, an opera...