THE RAGING BULL OF CAERFYRDDIN
THE RAGING BULL OF CAERFYRDDIN
Go slowly into love's cold night
Slowly into the water that has travelled
Across the smoke of Caerfyrddin
Slaughter thyself
Into the hills
Into the valley storm of the pheasant's
Blood and feathers
In the welsh black bull's weather
Where a
Mother and her calf
Were
Slain
In their loneliness ∞
Because Love, it cannot live in the woods
Nor in the Wren's wooden waves
Of Laugharne
In the white boiling clouds
That hunt you
In the wooden thunder shack
That Slaughters you
Into a Saint's torrent loneliness
So the
Cormorant cries
The lament of Gráinne Mhaol
With its bronze eyes turning gales
Into the Boathouse of Laugharne
And Slaughter thyself into the waves of the Whistling
Winds
Of a lonesome boatman
Oh my Oxford Geranium
My salacious pearl
Latched upon the cold milk horizon
Where the tall-stemmed yellow dogs go to
Crow
By Caerfyrddin
In the horns that are your Father's love
Slaughter thyself
Into the whistling winds of the bull of Laugharne
Oh, my Oxford Geranium
My salacious pearl
Still the silent green hale of days
That would haunt you, into the Wren's silent Stare
The Abattoir
In the Boathouse of Laugharne
...for Dylan Thomas
Alan Patrick Traynor
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Alan Patrick Traynor is a Poet from Dublin Ireland. He is the author of SEVEN DAYS OF ASHES, EDIT NOT MY SOUL & UNTIL THE BROKEN CLOUDS ANSWER that lament the world around the Irish Poet.
It has been said that his poetry is like the mystical galvanic paint that sets the fields of Provence on fire.
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