Ronald Stuart Thomas
Ronald Stuart Thomas Poems
|3.||The Bright Field||2/29/2016|
|6.||Thirteen Blackbirds Looking At A Man||1/3/2003|
|8.||The Old Language||1/3/2003|
|10.||The Dark Well||1/3/2003|
|13.||The Ancients Of The World||1/3/2003|
|16.||The Way Of It||1/3/2003|
|17.||Poetry For Supper||1/13/2003|
|21.||An Old Man||1/13/2003|
|23.||Night And Morning||1/3/2003|
|24.||A Welshman To Any Tourist||1/3/2003|
|27.||A Welsh Testament||1/13/2003|
|29.||The Cat And The Sea||1/3/2003|
|31.||On The Farm||1/13/2003|
|32.||Death Of A Poet||1/13/2003|
|36.||A Day In Autumn||3/21/2004|
|37.||A Blackbird Singing||1/13/2003|
A Blackbird Singing
It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.
You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.
A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history's overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are ...
A Welsh Testament
All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter?
I spoke a tongue that was passed on
To me in the place I happened to be,
A place huddled between grey walls
Of cloud for at least half the year.
My word for heaven was not yours.
The word for hell had a sharp edge
Put on it by the hand of the wind
Honing, honing with a shrill sound