Learning by rote
I hadn’t learned anything by rote – apart from my bank PIN number – since playing Friedrich Von Trapp in the Parkfields School production of The Sound of Music. And that was back in 1972. So when my poetry coach, Pele Cox, asked me to commit to memory Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas I wasn’t even sure I could do it. Running to 467 words over 54 lines and six verses, it was certainly longer than the script for my stage debut (and, as it turned out, finale). Plus, a 61-year-old mind was surely going to be less malleable than that of an 11-year-old used to reciting his times tables to teachers armed with knuckle-rapping rulers?
But it turns out I needn’t have worried. It took time – nearly two months in all (although I reckon I could have done it much quicker if I’d been able to commit to it full time like, say, an actor doing it for a living). And it took discipline – reading each line again and again and again… Probably more than 100 times in all.
That repetition was instrumental in cementing the words in my memory. But to give those words voice and to imbue them with something more than their narrow semantic meaning required me to occupy the poem and, therefore, by extension, the poet’s head. This, of course, sounds like pretentious twaddle! So let me explain…
I don’t mean that I read the poem in a Welsh accent (although I did) or that, like Thomas, I occasionally combined my task with alcohol (although I did). I mean that I strutted around my own garden from “under the apple bough” to the “lilting house” listening to the “tunes from the chimneys” and watching my farming neighbours in their “hay fields as high as the house.” Each time I walked by the brook that flows “all the sun long” at the bottom of the lane I declared (to any passerby who cared to listen) that “the Sabbath rang slowly in the pebbles of the holy streams.” Every swallow swoop was a reminder of the “loft by the shadow of my hand.”
Being inside the poem in this way helped me both to learn it and to feel it. If at any point a word or line was lost I could, in a very real sense at least initially, look for it. Not in Fern Hill in South Wales but in my half-real, half-imagined recreation of that landscape in South Shropshire. I am “blessed among stables” and realise this process might have been more difficult had I been living in South London.
So what have I learned from the exercise – apart from the obvious – and was it worthwhile?
That my brain isn’t as knackered as I feared it might be.
That poems – or certainly good ones – are like onions and can be peeled back layer by layer to reveal things you miss in a single, cursory reading. Forgive the crass metaphor but for me it’s not unlike the difference between a one-night-stand and a lasting relationship. The superficial may be gratifying – beautiful even. But intimacy – spending longer with a person, poem or poet – is revelatory and ultimately so much more rewarding.
One such reward revealed to me by spending days on end with Fern Hill is that eventually you can move beyond the words (like a couple of old lovers sitting in silence) and hear in that quietness the “breathing” – the rhythm, tone and cadence – of the poem. That musicality is one of Thomas’s many gifts.
But I guess the biggest lesson is that to achieve anything remotely close to the mastery of language demonstrated by Thomas I must spend as much time living and breathing my own poems. Anything less will make them superficial.
Being a newsreader is boring
Let me start with a confession: I wasn’t a very good newsreader. And I didn’t do it for very long. But I did it for long enough to learn that (a) sitting around all day reading somebody else’s words from an autocue isn’t a proper job and that (b) despite appearances, the news doesn’t change very much – it’s essentially the same old stories being told and retold over and over and over again. Ad nauseum.
So I jumped at the chance to write and perform my own skit on The Big Live Breakfast Burrito – quite possibly the weirdest LinkedIn Live show you’ll ever see.
Here I am playing the role of an end-of-the-pier fortune teller – a worryingly camp cross cross between Gypsy Rose Lee and Jack Sparrow. You can be the judge of whether I’m as lousy at script-writing and acting as news reading. But I don’t think you can deny I enjoyed myself!
Thank you to Mrs Uridge for her lipstick (clearly she didn’t apply it) and for the blouse and bling which I have, of course, returned.
My life in words – in words
I was asked to be a guest of the inimitable Eric Doyle on The Crux Cast which is streamed live on LinkedIn, YouTube and Twitter. If you’re interested in what makes me tick – and fancy a bit of a hoot – here’s an insight into my lifelong passion for words. Pull up a beanbag, pour yourself a drink….
Fern Hill
by Dylan Thomas
My poetry coach, the wonderful Pele Cox, has asked me to commit this poem to memory. It’s proving to be a tough gig. Not least because the last time I learned lines was probably as Friedrich von Trapp in the Parkfields School production of the Sound of Music back in the early 1970s. I had to dress in lederhosen for that role. For this one I’m not sure what I’ll wear. Something Welsh maybe?!
It’s a beautiful poem by the way. I’ve reproduced it below from my copy of Dylan Thomas Selected Works.* I’m not at all sure I’ll be able to do it justice. I’ll keep you posted on this pilgrim’s progress.
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light. And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams. All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise. And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace, Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
- Published in 1976 by Book Club Associates with the permission of the Trustees of the copyrights of the late Dylan Thomas.
A birthday poem
I was asked to pen a birthday poem to celebrate the first anniversary of The Big Live Breakfast Burrito – perhaps the weirdest, most eclectic but nonetheless wonderful LinkedIn live you’ll ever see. Follow the Burrito link to see the reading in context. Here it is with captions in not-so-splendid isolation.
Lost in the woods – a Catholic shrine
This is a story that resonates with what is happening today. It was first broadcast on BBC Radio Norfolk and features an interview with my good friend and former BBC colleague Conal O’Donnell.
It’s the extraordinary story of Paul Hoda’c who fled to the UK during World War Two after his native Czechoslovakia was overrun by the Nazis. He settled here and as reminder of both his faith and the forests of his native country he built a Roman Catholic shrine near Dereham in Norfolk.
Here Conal explains how his own family is connected to the strange story of the shrine in the woods.
So Sunflowers Grow
Of all the tear-jerking images of war on the edges of Europe, one or two have stayed with me: birds shocked from their treetop roosts by the deep boom of artillery fire; a woman handing out sunflower seeds to occupying Russian forces.
This poem has grown from these images. Like In Flanders Fields (from which it borrows heavily and compares badly), it’s a rondeau. Sadly, John McCrae had first hand experience of war to inform his work. Glady, I have none. So please forgive any unintended insensitivity. It is, necessarily, a work of imagination.
So Sunflowers Grow
So sunflowers grow where you die
She said with hate-and-hope-pierced eye
Then handed the soldier a seed
It will grow when Ukraine is freed
Rooted in your blood, in your lie.
Air sucked from a bird-shrapneled sky
Lungs emptied before the reply
No thanks heard. Silent, unstaunched bleed
So sunflowers grow.
Shot once they said: sniped; head too high.
Crumpled camo, no time to lie
Unregimented – pulled up weed
Withered. Lifeless. Yet in that deed
Of decomposting spirits fly
So sunflowers grow.
Lost Words
Here’s how the dream unfolds: behind the gritted lids of night is told the story of an ironed-flat sea - moonlight over mercury. Soon out. Beyond the beach. Deep down below the folds and creases. Rapid eyes. Heart beat increases. Mouthing silently as they sink like drowning men who twist and pike then slip, unsaved, beneath the surface an un-remembered shoal of twisted faces. By morning out of reach. Untold. Unseen. So all that’s left is this blank sheet damp and crumpled from the dream.
You know that feeling of loss when you have a really good idea at night but you’ve forgotten it by morning? Well this is a poem about that!
I used to keep a notebook (yes, a stupidly expensive and pretentious Moleskine) by my bed to scribble down random words and lines as they came to me. That, of course, meant turning on the bedside lamp. So now, for the sake of my long-suffering partner, I jot them down in the notes of my smartphone although I’m sure the blue light of the screen is playing havoc with my sleep pattern.
A Postcard from Tenerife
Dear Mum
Wish you were here!
El Medano reminds me of Swanage.
Sand, sea, sunshine, taut salty skin.
The tide of geological time turning as the waves wash in and out and in…
But then these days everywhere reminds me of Swanage.
Wish you were here
In that jumper I’d now give anything to possess, dad playing on the beach.
You camera shy just out of reach.
A pair of empty sandals* in the cradle of the deckchair.
There but not there.
(How I) wish you were here…
Dear Mum
Like many parents my mum and dad dutifully plotted their children’s travels around the world by sticking our postcards home to the downstairs toilet wall. Partly geography, partly social history, it’s a family A to Z covering literally everywhere from Aberystwyth (my stay-at-home sister) to Zanzibar (her globe-trotting baby brother). But follow the path (easier when you piss standing up) you’d see the journey comes to an abrupt end. By the U bend…
The sticker-upper-in-chief (our dad) died. And shortly afterwards so did the tradition of sending postcards because, let’s face(book) it, #holiday is a whole heap easier than buying a stamp and finding a postbox. Trouble is mum – like many women of her generation – has never really done social. “They’d have called in Wrinkly Facebook if it was for us,” she joked. Before dementia wiped the smile off all our faces. She’s still with us though. Her name is Sheila. And this poem is for her.
*This line was inspired by my mum’s sandals sitting on a deckchair in a family photograph I’d looked at a hundred times before but not properly seen. For me poetry is all about seeing things properly.
The poem was also written because I’d been asked to pen something on the theme of travel for The Big Live Breakfast Burrito on LinkedIn. If you haven’t listened check it out. I also penned an alternative based on the shows hosts...
Dear Mum
Wish you were here. You’d love Burritonia
Will couldn’t make it so I’m here with Antonia.
Eric’s the rep a right Tam o Shanter
With a fella called Matt who’s a bit of a Ranter
Then there’s a woman named Van – Vin Extraordinaire
And Simon (and Craig with a chin-ful of hair).
Day Two.
The sun’s been quite strong so Eric’s turned pink.
And Matt’s prone to whingeing so he’s kicked up a stink.
And Van’s poured a glass of Canarian wine.
Though it’s barely past breakfast and hasn’t struck nine.
Now Simon’s got factoids he can’t get the cream
Craig’s knitting his beard like he’s lost in a dream.
Antonia’s mouthing a mysterious word
And from Will only silence nothing’s been heard.
Wish you were here.