By dbanach - Posted on 02 September 2010

THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER 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.

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jared a. j. butler's picture
5

"[Let photography], in short, be the secretary and record-keeper of whomsoever needs absolute material accuracy for professional reasons.... But if once it be allowed to impinge on the sphere of the intangible and the imaginary, on anything that has value solely because man adds something to it from his soul, then woe betide us!

(Charles Baudelaire, "The Modern Public and Photography," from Part 2 of The Salon of 1859

 

 

Charles here had quite the failure of imagination--maybe this was written during a period of ennui.   Beautiful pictures--"The force..." that these images capture speaks more of the intangible and the imaginary to me than anything Baudelaire's written, save for maybe a handful of poems when I'm in a particular mood.  Sure, the power of these photographs owes to Nature; I'd say too that Thomas' words owe their strength to the very object of the poem.  Like a tube of paint squeezed across a canvas, it squeezes the green out of the Earth, the pigment from Thomas' hair, and the brilliant words and images from his soul.

 

Sure, the power of these photographs owes to Nature, but my mortal eyes can see only so much; they truly look at far less than they can see.  So screw Baudelaire; thanks for sharing these.  I believe they serve as a powerful metaphor, or at least a vehicle or way of thinking about, the soul and our existence in time.

 

JAJB 

this series is so simple, sensual and beautiful. i am so amazed. excellent job. 

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