Green Poems - Poems For Green

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The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower - Poem by Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

Comments about The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower by Dylan Thomas

  • Dominic Windram 9/10/2019 5:21:00 AM

    A powerful, profoundly poignant poem that deals with the paradoxical forces of creativity and destruction inherent in nature and the human condition. Reply

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  • Don Kubicki 7/7/2019 4:39:00 PM

    Time and the force of Nature is the hand. Thomas expresses the foreknowledge that he as a man is " dumb" to tell how death winds like a sheet (shroud) around his life. Reply

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  • Faizaan 7/3/2018 7:20:00 PM

    Real men in the world Reply

    2 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Tapan M. Saren 7/16/2017 2:56:00 AM

    I think 'the force' here is 'time'

    it's one of the finest poems in the English Literature.
    Reply

    3 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Greg Bell 2/27/2017 6:28:00 PM

    What a magnificent poem, full of dark paradox. Each stanza has at least one apparent paradox, usually more:

    The hand that whirls the water in the pool
    Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
    Hauls my shroud sail.

    Whose hand? ! A human hand can whirl the water in the pool, but who can stir the quicksand? (Takes a bigger than human hand, I think, that turns to the root of being, to the Deity. That ropes the blowing wind, again, invoking the prime mover, though, for contrast/comparison a human hand can haul his shroud sail. (Again, though, on a metaphorical level, that invokes The Great Hand.)

    The opening is unforgettable, but here's another stanza that could destroy the mind of a literalist:

    The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
    Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
    Shall calm her sores.
    And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
    How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

    Wildly musical, this poem goes way beyond music to invoke meaning in sounds. Intellectually ambitious, it can tie your head in knots if you take it literally This poem goes way beyond religion to a profound sense of unity with all creation. And, yes, with death, or rather, beyond death.
    Reply

    Devin (1/29/2018 8:44:00 AM)

    your the coolest edy yet

    6 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Brian Jani 4/26/2014 2:25:00 AM

    Awesome I like this poem, check mine out Reply

    Devion (1/29/2018 8:45:00 AM)

    thanks it really helped me

    2 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Will Vogel 2/2/2012 12:56:00 PM

    yo i aint get nuttin from dis ish Reply

    2 person liked.
    13 person did not like.
  • Sylva Portoian 2/28/2010 11:36:00 PM

    'The root of my trees is my destroyer',
    Oh what a stanza to analyze genetically
    He blames his bad genes destroying me,
    As, he enjoyed drinking heavily.
    Reply

    6 person liked.
    6 person did not like.
  • Sylva Portoian 2/28/2010 11:36:00 PM

    'The root of my trees is my destroyer',
    Oh what a stanza to analyze genetically
    He blames his bad genes destroying me,
    As, he enjoyed drinking heavily.
    Reply

    1 person liked.
    8 person did not like.
  • Thomas Egnoto 12/27/2008 7:59:00 AM

    It's about time, and how its grip is inescapable. Very depressing. Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
Read all 18 comments »
Green Poems
  1. 1. The Force That Through The Green Fuse Dr..
    Dylan Thomas
  2. 2. The Green Eye Of The Little Yellow God
    John Milton Hayes
  3. 3. The Echoing Green
    William Blake
  4. 4. Green Chile
    Jimmy Santiago Baca
  5. 5. Being Young And Green
    Edna St. Vincent Millay
  6. 6. There Is A Green Hill
    Cecil Frances Alexander
  7. 7. Green Mountain
    Li Po
  8. 8. The Green River
    Lord Alfred Douglas
  9. 9. Green: The Color... [green Things]
    Bri Edwards
  10. 10. Miss Lloyd Has Now Went To Miss Green
    Jane Austen
  11. 11. My Sage Green Robe
    Ernestine Northover
  12. 12. Camps Of Green
    Walt Whitman
  13. 13. Green Grow The Rashes
    Robert Burns
  14. 14. Green Fields
    William Stanley Merwin
  15. 15. Green Groweth The Holly
    Henry VIII, King of England
  16. 16. Sad Green Eyes
    Linda Ori
  17. 17. Meet Me In The Green Glen
    John Clare
  18. 18. The Gardener Lxxxiv: Over The Green
    Rabindranath Tagore
  19. 19. The Village Green
    Jane Taylor
  20. 20. As Through The Wild Green Hills Of Wyre
    Alfred Edward Housman
  21. 21. Now Spring Has Clad The Grove In Green
    Robert Burns
  22. 22. Small Is The Trust When Love Is Green
    Robert Louis Stevenson
  23. 23. Men In Green
    David Campbell
  24. 24. Form The Green Helmet And Other Poems
    William Butler Yeats
  25. 25. A Green Crab's Shell
    Mark Doty
  26. 26. ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! * Green Of Wild*! ! ..
    Dr subhendu kar
  27. 27. The Green Linnet
    William Wordsworth
  28. 28. Ami Green
    Edgar Lee Masters
  29. 29. The Green Bowl
    Amy Lowell
  30. 30. Green Thumb
    Philip Levine
  31. 31. In The Green And Gallant Spring
    Robert Louis Stevenson
  32. 32. Green
    David Herbert Lawrence
  33. 33. Lines Written At Thorp Green
    Anne Brontë
  34. 34. .where The Blue Kisses Green
    Linda Moore
  35. 35. In The Shade Of The Green Wood
    ANDREW BLAKEMORE
  36. 36. X Celestial Blue And Green Of Grass
    ONElia AVElar
  37. 37. Set Me Whereas The Sun Doth Parch The Gr..
    Henry Howard
  38. 38. Blue Wall / Green Wall
    Risha Ahmed (12 yrs)
  39. 39. The Color Of The Grave Is Green
    Emily Dickinson
  40. 40. A Jingle By The Green
    Dr subhendu kar
  41. 41. Thomson Green And Harriet Hale
    William Schwenck Gilbert
  42. 42. Who Goes Amid The Green Wood
    James Joyce
  43. 43. Green Onion Shampoo
    ToddMichael St. Pierre
  44. 44. The Green Willow Tree
    Scarlett Treat
  45. 45. ! ! ! The Glow Of The Green! ! !
    Dr subhendu kar
  46. 46. (for Dónall) Green Fingers
    Janice Windle
  47. 47. There’s A Bright Patch Of Green
    LLM Mbatha
  48. 48. Sonnet Ix: Ye, Who In Alleys Green
    Mary Darby Robinson
  49. 49. Green And Gold
    Nomad Omnia
  50. 50. The Green Singer
    John Shaw Neilson

New Green Poems

  1. Love Green, Sy Wong ...
  2. Green Sunshine, Don Kubicki
  3. Romance Sonámbulo / Somnambulist Romance.., Maria Magdalena Biela
  4. Green Tea, Noel Taylor
  5. State Of Emergence, onyinye onwuka
  6. Green., Sy Wong ...
  7. Lady In Green, Mirela Athanas
  8. This Green Green Green, Eziudo Michael Nwachukwu
  9. Green, Barry Conway
  10. Green, Heritier Losembe

Green Poems

  1. The Echoing Green

    The sun does arise, And make happy the skies; The merry bells ring To welcome the spring; The skylark and thrush, The birds of the bush, Sing louder around To the bell's cheerful sound, While our sports shall be seen On the Echoing Green. Old John with white hair, Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk. They laugh at our play, And soon they all say: 'Such, such were the joys When we all, girls and boys, In our youth time were seen On the Echoing Green.' Till the little ones, weary, No more can be merry; The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mothers Many sisters and brother, Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest, And sport no more seen On the darkening Green. .

  2. The Green Eye Of The Little Yellow God

    There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu, There's a little marble cross below the town; There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew, And the Yellow God forever gazes down. He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu, He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell; But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks, And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well. He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong, The fact that she loved him was plain to all. She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun To celebrate her birthday with a ball. He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew; They met next day as he dismissed a squad; And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do But the green eye of the little Yellow God. On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance, And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars: But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile, Then went out into the night beneath the stars. He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn, And a gash across his temple dripping red; He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day, And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed. He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through; She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod; He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew," And she found the little green eye of the god. She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do, Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet; But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get. When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night, She thought of him and hurried to his room; As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom. His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through; The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod; An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew, 'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God." There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu, There's a little marble cross below the town; There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew, And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

  3. Green Chile

    I prefer red chile over my eggs and potatoes for breakfast. Red chile ristras decorate my door, dry on my roof, and hang from eaves. They lend open-air vegetable stands historical grandeur, and gently swing with an air of festive welcome. I can hear them talking in the wind, haggard, yellowing, crisp, rasping tongues of old men, licking the breeze. But grandmother loves green chile. When I visit her, she holds the green chile pepper in her wrinkled hands. Ah, voluptuous, masculine, an air of authority and youth simmers from its swan-neck stem, tapering to a flowery collar, fermenting resinous spice. A well-dressed gentleman at the door my grandmother takes sensuously in her hand, rubbing its firm glossed sides, caressing the oily rubbery serpent, with mouth -watering fulfillment, fondling its curves with gentle fingers. Its bearing magnificent and taut as flanks of a tiger in mid-leap, she thrusts her blade into and cuts it open, with lust on her hot mouth, sweating over the stove, bandanna round her forehead, mysterious passion on her face as she serves me green chile con carne between soft warm leaves of corn tortillas, with beans and rice–her sacrifice to here little prince. I slurp form my plate with last bit of tortilla, my mouth burns and I hiss and drink a tall glass of cold water. All over New Mexico, sunburned men and women drive rickety trucks stuffed with gunny sacks of green chile, from Belen, Beguita, Wllard, Estancia, San Antonio y Socorro, from fields to roadside stands, you see them roasting green chile in screen-sided homemade barrels, and for a dollar a bag, we relive this old, beautiful ritual again and again.

  4. Being Young And Green

    Being Young and Green, I said in love's despite: Never in the world will I to living wight Give over, air my mind To anyone, Hang out its ancient secrets in the strong wind To be shredded and faded— Oh, me, invaded And sacked by the wind and the sun!