Friday 13 September 2013

Anthology 3

The Welsh poet - Welsher than Welsh, though he could only write poetry in English - R.S. Thomas has appeared on this blog before, especially around the time I was reading Byron Rogers' classic biography of the great man (as here and here). In this short, intense poem, Thomas wrests his attention from his thankless parish and his absent God to look back and forgive his parents...


Dear parents,
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.

It was not the bone buckled;
You gave me enough food
To renew myself.
It was the mind's weight
Kept me bent, as I grew tall.

It was not your fault.
What should have gone on,
Arrow aimed from a tried bow
At a tried target, has turned back,
Wounding itself
With questions you had not asked.

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