Blind Noel by R. S. Thomas

Christmas; the themes are exhausted.

Yet there is always room

on the heart for another

snowflake to reveal a pattern.


Love knocks with such frosted fingers.

I look out. In the shadow

of so vast a God I shiver, unable

to detect the child for the whiteness.


by R. S. Thomas

from No Truce with the Furies (1995)
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Island by R. S. Thomas

I would still go there
if only to await
the once-in-a-lifetime
opening of truth's flower;

if only to escape
such bought freedom, and live,
prisoner of the keyless sea,
on the mind's bread and water.

by R. S. Thomas
from No Truce with the Furies (1995)

Evening by R. S. Thomas

The archer with time

as his arrow – has he broken

his strings that the rainbow

is so quiet over our village?

 

Let us stand, then in the interval

of our wounding, till the silence

turn golden and love is

a moment eternally overflowing.

 

by R. S. Thomas

from No Truce With the Furies (1995)

Hallowe’en by R.S. Thomas

Outside a surfeit of planes.

Inside the hunger of the departed

to come back. ‘Ah, erstwhile humans,

would you make your mistakes

over again? In life, as in love,

the second time around is

no better.’

I confront their expressions

in the embers, on grey walls:

faces among the stones watching

me to see if this night

of all nights I will make sacrifice

to the spirits of hearth and of

roof-tree, pouring a libation.

 

‘Stay where you are,’ I implore.

‘This is no world for escaped beings

to make their way back into.

The well that you took your pails

to is polluted. At the centre

of the mind’s labyrinth to machine howls

for the sacrifice of the affections;

vocabulary has on a soft collar

but the tamed words are not to be trusted.

As long as the flames hum, making

their honey, better to look in

upon truth’s comb than to

take off as we do on fixed wings

for depollinated horizons.’

 

by R. S Thomas

from No Truce with the Furies (1995)

Still Point by R. S. Thomas

In the universe one

world beneath cloud

foliage. In that world

a town. In the town

 

a house with a child,

who is blind, staring

over the edge of the universe

into the depths of love.

 

by R. S. Thomas

from No Truce With The Furies (1995)

To A Lady by R. S. Thomas

I don’t know

who I write to,

the frocked girl,

pretty but pert,

or the grown-up

mother, doll-less

but dolled. Nor

does death either

who, liquidating

her lungs, applying

irons to her heart,

discovers, astonished,

a being somewhere

between both, perter

than a child, prettier

than a parent, and

wiser than each

of them in the way

she treats his fumbling

familiarity with contempt.

 

by R. S. Thomas

from No Truce With The Furies (1995)