(00:00:15) The Reverend Eli Jenkins in Bethesda house groups out of bed into his preachers black comes back. His baths white hair forgets to wash pads Barefoot downstairs opens the front door stands in the doorway and looking out of the day and up at the Eternal Hill and hearing the sea break and the gap of birds remembers his own verses and tells them softly to empty Coronation Street that is rising and raising its blinds. A (00:00:55) selection from under milk wood by Dylan Thomas read by the poet's daughter who today is herself a poet. (00:01:15) Bridges lead to an island divided from the mainland by an expanse of water to some there's a continual storm to others. It seems variable yet others find it calm the bridges were built by men for an easier Crossing costing many tears almost cross sometime a wait until buried there a death. The bridges are many take one. Don't be like the proud individual who tried to swim. (00:01:49) Bridges by Iron Way Thomas recently listeners to public radio station WBEZ in Chicago heard Welsh poet siren way Thomas and Brian Walters discussed the process and performance of poetry with interviewer. Sondra Kerr will hear that program which includes something which is all too rare on American radio the experience of poetry (00:02:22) the Welsh poet. Dylan Thomas was born in Wales on October 27th 1914. He died in 1953 Thomas is Lyric poems are among the most captivating in 20th century romantic verse and having an extraordinarily sensitive ear and a rich resonant voice. He wrote and read poetry with an unforgettable auditory appeal. Thomas published his first book called 8 poems in 1934 then moved to London where he published his second called 25 palms and by this time he had won Acclaim from Edith sitwell and others who praised the variety and originality of his poetic experimentation Thomas gained immediate recognition. He married in 1937 Catlin McNamara and fathered three children, ironically Thomas the daughter of Dylan and Brian Walters a Welsh poet are a poetry writing and reading team though both reside in Great Britain. They've been traveling about the world for several years in concert presenting as they call it once below a time. I was pleased to have them as my guests. I'm sure that Iran that you were so weary of or maybe not of beings described as iron Thomas Ellis. Dylan Thomas is daughter but you obviously realized the mistaken and the magic of that. So I'm going to ask you what do you recall in your Early Childhood? Because I know you were 10 when your father died. I believe what what do you recall your father being like as a person? I'm glad you asked me. What do I recall of my father as a person because people always ask me. What do you remember and it's such a vast subject that you have to start somewhere. Well, my father I remember him is rather Jolly person tending to the rotund as they say I always thought of him as rather a bit of a teddy bear. I don't know if you have teddy bears in yes. Yes, and he gave me that feeling and that security and because it is a one-sided view mine, but I found him. A very warm and a very good father in his way. Although he left all the discipline side of us children to my mother was Irish, but he was very attentive to you then. Yes very much on in his own terms. I mean, what do you mean by that? Well, he wanted to get his writing done and his and go to Pub in the evening and see his friends there. And so we'd have certain parts of the day assigned to us and certain parts the date of my father when he came back from the pub in the morning, but he first of all he get up and then there'll be some time for us and what he do when he was with you. Well, well, he he would read to me quite a lot from Grimm's Fairy Tales and he would select different books for me and my mother would get cross he'd spend so much on books for us children, but he wasn't really interested in playing dolls houses or anything like that with me he would do as I say Teach us what he knew about which of course was about books. And then you come away back from meeting his cronies in the pub in London in the morning and my mother would lock him in into the bicycle shed. Would she use her writing and she liked him too because he tried to get out and not right is that well? Yes, that's one way of being disciplined and we as children were not allowed to go past the bicycle shed, which was for his working shed until he finished at 6:00 when my mother would unlock the door and let him out. I think when my father died and I started to be introduced which hadn't happened before then. I started to be introduced always as the daughter of yes Dylan Thomas. I started to get rather annoyed and I took precautions. I went to many schools in my childhood following my mother around. Well your mother traveled afterwards. Yeah. So soon as my father died. She didn't want to stay on in Wales and she went abroad to Italy and I followed her there and as she traveled around I would change schools and I found that as long as I didn't tell anyone about my father that I could be accepted in my own right or rejected, which I was sometimes and they either like me or disliked me because of what I was and how do you feel as an adult about that? It's so difficult. I think for children of a very celebrated people so often you hear that they don't really go anywhere or become successful because of that the blanket of the other parents rule but you you have certainly written on your own and achieved a great deal on your own. So what were they changes in your attitudes when you grew up? Well, I think there was this ambivalent attitude when I first started reciting my father's poetry. I thought well I do this for short time and when it gets a bit too much and I begin to feel I'm losing my own identity, then I'll Stop, but by that time I'd written a book of my own and I started inserting my own poetry into the program and then I teamed up with Brian who encouraged me a lot on this and we've been going ever since in fact, we advertise ourselves all over the United Kingdom with just the title once below a time. I don't have to say I'm the daughter of because we've become well known as an entertainment team, which is rather unique kind of team isn't at the drug poetic team. (00:08:05) I think we're unique in the world for what we do because we don't just read poetry. We do make it an entertainment. I think this is very important that poetry when read aloud in front of an audience should be entertaining that doesn't mean to say to be frivolous. You can help her to a serious content, but you can also have ported it is amusing and in between your poems. You have your honor. Adults in your reminiscences which help to make it (00:08:35) entertaining it more human to Brian. You've published several more than several volumes of poetry and we have some here fi Irish. We haven't done it lately and I want to ask you what haven't we done lately Le later. That sounds almost and this is your this is yours. I run and and you wrote Cloud flowers what you said to me before our group of love poems. Well, what I would like to do is ask you and I run to do a reading right now and Abby just disgusting and you know, since we were talking about the daughter of Dylan Thomas, let's get that out of the way and I would ask you to do if you will the two of you under milk wood a little bit of that and then we're going to hear some of your own Works. Would that be all right? That's fine. The He lied Jenkins in Bethesda house groups out of bed into his preachers. Black Combs back. His baths white hair forgets to wash pads Barefoot downstairs opens the front door stands in the doorway and looking out at the day and up at the Eternal Hill and hearing the sea break and the gap of birds remembers his own verses and tells them softly to empty Coronation Street that is rising and raising its blinds. (00:10:07) Dear Guardia. I know that a towns Lovelier than ours unfair heels and loftier for and grows more full of flowers and Bhaskar Woods more Blythe with spring and bright with birds adorning and sweeter Barnes than high to sing their praise this beauteous morning by Kadar Idris Tempest or or mylar with the bus Glory. Karna Fluellen Beauty born blind lemon all him Story by mountains working off the Dreams by pain mine Mauer defiant. Let me give Hill a molehill seems a pygmy to a giant ice. So they send need of the D edu Eden aled all tough and Tower Broad and free flow of none to with its waterfall liar when clothes idolized. Ow, Healy Greeley org or neighs small is our River dowley, Lord a baby and a rushy bed by carreg cannen King of time. Our Heron had this only a bit of stone with seaweed spread where gulls come to be lonely. That tiny Dingle is milkwood by Golden Grove Neath Grand grrrr, but lets me choose and oh, oh I should love all my life and a longer to stroll among our trees and straying Goose God Blaine on Donkey down and here the dowie sing all day and never never leave the town (00:12:23) the Reverend Jenkins closes the front door. His morning service is over. (00:12:30) No woken At Last by the out of bed sleepyhead to Polly put the kettle on Town Hall Bell Lily Smalls mrs. By nuns treasure comes downstairs. My dream of royalty all night long went locking with a full of source in the milk would dark and puts the kettle on the Primus ring and mrs. By nuns kitchen and looks at herself in mr. By nuns shaving glass over the sink and serious. (00:12:58) Oh, there's a face when you get that a from got it from an old Tomcat. Give it back then love. Oh, there's a perm we get that nose from Lily got it from my father silly. You've got it on upside down. Oh, there's a conch. Look at your complexion. Oh, no, you look it's a bit of makeup needs a veil 00 this glamour. Will you get that smile a little never you mind girl. Nobody loves you. That's what you think. We should who loves you Chantal. Come on Lily cross your rotten cross my heart (00:13:42) and very softly my lips almost touching her reflection. She breathes the name and clouds the Shaving glass. (00:13:52) Oh, it's marvelous Ryan. You have had programs on the BBC reading literary Works. (00:14:02) Yes. I produce my own literary program for BBC Radio 4 period of six months in fact, and of course, I've done many recordings on BBC Radio and for television as well. (00:14:17) Did you involve Dylan Thomas's works very much on your programs. (00:14:22) Well, the literary program that I did was for mainly for local writers. It was giving writers an opportunity to read I work on the air and so I suppose because Dylan Thomas didn't really come into that with television programs radio programs. I did myself. Well, I tend to read more my own works except when we work together. Then I join I run with really develops of Dylan Thomas (00:14:51) as well. Really help do you work? Do you have your own press in England? Do you publish your own poetry? (00:14:58) No, I hadn't used to but the new book my latest book. I've just joined up with a publisher and become a partner in a new Welsh publishing company. They Kelty on publishing company in a Buddhist with so now of course. Yes, I'm involved in in publishing but that's very very new. We've already published. I run with first book later than long and we'll be publishing our reminiscences. We hope next year. (00:15:33) Wonderful. I run when you write your poetry. Yeah. Do you have a handicap do you think while you're writing? I'm Dylan Thomas's daughters. I'd better write this in other words. Do you feel a kind of pressure either conscious or kind of sometimes I think it's I think if I haven't been the daughter of as it were I wouldn't have that's a good title for a book by the way your daughter. Yes. I would not have begun writing poetry. So I think that while I complain that I'm under some sort of handicap. I'm also under the opposite of a handicap. I think that my father's particular lifestyle has inspired me to do to write because it's a very difficult occupation. What does everything not to right? It's the last possible thing when wants to do and yet it seems inevitable as anyone who writes knows that would you read one of your own poems? Yes. I'm not feeling too well today. So I'm going to write. I'm rather read. I'm going to read a poem called me grain. And it's a visually I says are you say we grab that I said not in my head yesterday suddenly realized we pronounce it migrants a headache. Is that what you're saying is I'm sorry to say it's apropos of you're feeling unwell. I'm yes we seem to be up against the common barrier, which is the language half the time well migraine or me green. Here it is. Something behind something running run run tunnel closer. Something is getting closer crisis lights your eyes explode burn lights flashing flashing flashing flashing pain. No, not again another flash behind the shadow of fear. Is there run run it's steps are with mine cavernous walls cave in intensify light flashing lights the shadow ignites Burns a hole in my head drags its close down my cheek worms its way through my aches walls cramped go black contract too late. Misery ache misery egg. I hug my shadow to me like a warm here and wait wait wait. That's beautiful and it doesn't seem very much like a migraine. Does it doesn't it in his mind Brian? What about reading one of your poems? We haven't done it lately is the most recent you said it (00:18:25) was the most recent book but it also is a pot collection of earlier poems that are gone out of print. So it still has a selection from somewhere earlier poems and some new ones as well. Do I have time for to yes because there's what I want to read from fire is because they think is rather appropriate because it's a poem that I wrote for iron, but I'd feel too that I should read a poem that reflects the part of Wales where I live. So I live up in the mountains in mid Wales, but a thousand feet up in the mountains by plane lemon that was mentioned by of course the Reverend Eli Jenkins there in his morning. Of us I just about three miles from where I live. There's a Bronze Age Stone Circle or what is left of it. It's right up in the mountains. And right now there's a Christian Church. Tiny Church our local church built inside. What is left of the circle which of course is around about 4,000 years old because it's in sight of blind lemon Mountain. So this is a poem that is really to recreate an atmosphere is called images of stone the churches at a little place called as Petit Convent which means the hospital the place of hospitality of convent, which is what it used to be in medieval times. The stone Standalone in full moon shape 10 teeth drawn from the old man's face cracked worn and supporting now the iron brace of the old churchgate each Stone a mirror of for millenniums not to see but to feel and touch to trace with fingers lives are faced by wind and rain. Only in the images of stone can words be seen and such a see with eyes of Celtic history can raise up ghosts of worshippers and travelers and share with them mysterious conversations of the mind and find each Rising Sun The Blood run down the stones then from that circled Place watch from the Lord leaden Sky of night the same blood drain to Grey Lynn lemons face. When crowned with crows the blackened wingtip quills outstretched, the five remaining Stones make shadows, which the elongated Sun transforms into a wreath of thorns impaled upon the stem of Ash and running red with Rowan berries then Springs to Life religion of the Barrett past those hooded images cast on the cruise and green that only with the eyes of ancient history a scene. And the poem that I want to read now is a poem dedicated to her on there in 1974. We did a show together at the Abbey theater in Dublin. And this is the very first occasion that Iran had been to Ireland where of course her mother Catelyn came from it would also have been a Dylan Thomas's 60th year to heaven. So I felt that it was very appropriate to write this poem which I called in this your country sleep because my father had written a poem to iron when she was very young titled in country sleep it also quotes Dylan Thomas, of course. And it also makes reference to that greatest of Irish poets WB Yeats who is buried at drum cliff in County Sligo and you probably remember the poem of Yates where after everything that one is done in life and striven to accomplish so much what then said Plato's ghost what then anyway, this is the this is the poem and it's a poem that is really asking Dylan Thomas questions. Can you look out and see and what would be your 60th year to questionable Heaven? The herons gulls Rooks and rain here again. The town awake to ringing wind. Can you comprehend still the singing of a hearts or truth on your eminent higher? He'll answer me from the knowledge in aging lines can a child joy and die three times you realize the joy is the knock of dust the rusting Tower the Leaning seen the actions end you stood the tiptoe shouted at the moon and storm seabed and Shaw asserted the authority of the sun yet. I suspect that you the inner man did surely know the death would have the ultimate Doom. Him you felt the time of No Time Heard the Bells of know God and eyelids heavy with copper doubted the Breaking Dawn then torn by the lat Undead but knocked down by the one who shut his light. You told your riding girl not to fear to wake each day believe the death is not a violation of the law only a turning of the earth each wounding year. And here today faith in the leaping Saga of prayer believing in the brimming words stands a daughter whose roots of fused in green fresh from the field of telling lines green with green and first invoice from another world. Is this your answer then spoken from a distant Shore. Like drum Cliff Stone, you leaned and fell were carved again from newest sky. What then? Is what is now and live in lapis lies you lie. (00:25:34) You know, I was listening to your Rhythm not only in your own poetry. But the Rhythm that you used when you were reading John Thomases poetry before milk. Would I run first? I'd like to ask you is do you think that being your father's daughter? Yes and noise so much about him that it makes your reading of his poetry that much more sensitive to other people who did not know him even though they may be expert at Reading. Well, I did actually trained as an actress. I think that might help I trained for four years when I was still at a very susceptible age. And I think it's remained with me. In fact, I have to turn myself down half the time and then the Welsh, you know, you don't have to invite them twice to do a recitation or thing. Yes. So we do we don't we're not handicapped in that sense. But then of course, I do feel that I know more about most of the pros pieces and poetry than a lot of people. Yes. I'm not an expert on poetry but most of the description most of the poems and I could read you one of his I wish you would like describes literally what we saw each day. We got up it is the Estuary in front of our home. Please read it. Yes, they are. And if I'm going to read this particular poem which is poem on his birthday at describes his house on stilts Hyman big some gloves of birds. This in fact was the home that we used to live at called The Boathouse which is in Lan fact, you might notice that my book is called later than Lon. Yes, and the tide would come in every day from the Estuary right into our back garden and the house had to be built on high polls in order not to be flooded every day. And so I like California HERO. Yes, and most of my father's poems whether it's poem on his birthday or poem in October or not Fernhill but over Sir John's Hill, they are complete descriptions. He paints a picture of where we brought up and so in that sense, I feel I do understand more. So anyway, here's one to illustrate what I've been talking about. It's called poem on his birthday. In the Mustard Seed Son by full-tilt river and Switchback see where the cormorants God in his house on stilts High among beaks and pallavas of birds this end grain day in the Bennet base grave. He celebrates and spurns his Driftwood 35th wind turned age hair Inspire and spear under and round him go flounders girls on their cold dying Trails doing what they're told curl use allowed in the Concord waves work there ways to death and the Rhymer in the long tongued room who told his birthday Bell toils towards the ambush of his wounds herons steeple stem and bless. Four elements and five senses and a man a spirit in love tangling through the spun slime to his Nimbus Bell cool Kingdom Come and the lost Moon Shine domes and the see that hides his secret selves deep in its black bass bones lolling of spheres in the seashell flesh. And this last blessing most that The Closer I moved to death one man through his sundered Hulk's the louder the sun blooms and the Tusk tram shackling see exalts. And every wave of the way and Gail, I tackle the whole world then with more triumphant Faith them ever was since the world was said spins its morning of praised. I hear the bouncing Hills grew locked and greenert Betty Brown fall and the Dulux sing taller this Thunderclap spring and how most bandwidth Angels ride to the man sold fairy Islands. Oh holier than their eyes and my shining men no more alone. As I Sail Out To Die. I may say I have cut out a large section of it the middle section because I thought it was very interesting to hear all our answers and your questions. Thank you. I have lots more questions. I'm going to ask you your mother Catelyn was really a very great influence on your father. You mentioned before either the Charming's of a sort of cute story of that hit her locking him in see to it that he worked and it's almost like another child, but I guess a lot of a lot of wives and husbands live that way and I think it's probably important in many aspects of together but your mother and your father are kind of in a very interesting way almost legendary and as a couple is almost out of literature people talk about them together, you know, and yeah, it's almost not contemporary one has a feeling that it's out of historical, you know about a poetic history. It was difficult for her mother after he died. Was it very difficult. For her to become an individual. Well, I think she felt that during my father's life that she was very much left at home with us children. And as I mentioned before she was left to discipline his children, in fact, my father never lifted his hand to anyone contrary to popular belief. He was absolutely incapable of any physical violence incapable. Was it difficult for her to maybe when I say individual I know she was always an individual but to become independent of her relationship with him. Yes when she first started my father she was actually a dancer and she was hoping to go on to great things. And then of course she was chained down by three children and that's the way she described it and she was out of women's lib the very essence of it. Absolutely. She would leave us children and go out in the evening with Joanie in later years. I thought might be rather shocking but she was never left out of anything of went on once we were in bed after my father died. Yes. I think she tried hard. First of all, it was a terrible shock took a few years to get over that and once you establish yourself, as you know, she wrote a book for the first time of course and she called it leftover life to kill although it's such a pessimistic title. In fact, I think for the first time she'd made her own voice home. This is what I meant. I run about the difficulties. She must have had in becoming energy independent from his living with her. Well, I think she always felt that she was as talented as my father different ways. And this is often the problem, isn't it? Yes it is and she sent me to drama and dancing school because she felt that perhaps I could have that dancing career that she hadn't managed to get. Go cited as often turns out I was absolutely terrible dancer, but you became a good poet. I'd like to read one of my more Oriental orientated works. I was very interested in Oriental Philosophy for a while and all our generation was I don't know about America should think it originated from America and we all went into meditation and so on and this is just one of the poems from that era and it's called The Eagle. The eagle soars above the mountain from his view the mountain is a mountain for us below clouds obscure the summit the eagle dips below the cloud a mountain is not a mountain soaring above again. The mountain is a mountain Be watchful the situation is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps I could read just one more as they're so short called peacocks. A flowering of peacocks blue turquoise electric Royal pale and dark green a blue until I saw a peacock. I thought blue was only one color. What else can I read? Elephant all poets you might know a door reading the latest stuff. All right. Well, I've got another one about my son, but don't read that particularly. I've got a highly frivolous one called elephant if I can find it. And it came to me in a Flash and it possibly ought never have come at all and it's called a elephant. What is an elephant a large grayish moving mass of animate animal. So what so you're only a mouse squeak? The word elephant is a very marvelous word. It's fun that you can get your tongue around. This is a short lyric written by my father and which is instantly very popular and often requested it during readings and it's some the very romantic view my father had about the reason behind him writing his poetry whether it's some tongue in cheek or not. I don't know. Anyway, it's called in my craft or Sullen art. In my craft or Sullen art exercised in the still night, when only the moon rages and the lovers liya begged with all their griefs in their arms, I labor by singing light not for ambition or bread or the strut and trade of charms on the ivory stages, but for the common wages of their most secret heart not for the proud Man Apart from the Raging Moon. I write on these Spindrift Pages nor for the Towering Dead with a Nightingales and Psalms. But for the lovers their arms around the griefs of the ages who pay no praise or wages, no heed my craft or art. Now I'm going to read some poetry of my own but before doing so I'd like to read my father's words about this very subject. He starts off reading one's own poems aloud is letting the cat out of the bag. You may have always suspected bits of a poem to be over waited over violent or plain Daft and then suddenly with the poet's tongue around them. Your suspicion is made certain how he slows up a line to savor it remembering what trouble it took once upon a time to make it just so at the very moment you may think when the poem needs crispness and speed. Does the cat smell or Mew the better when its original owner or father? Even the Tom poet? Let it out of the bag then when another does who never put it in. I'd like to ask you something. I yes before we start more poetry. Yes just a bit about your father. You mentioned, you know before that. He had he went to the pub early in the morning and then later on and of course there are many tales, you know that have gone around about his drinking and yes and I do fighting and things and you mentioned also in part of the interview that was a lot of these things were mythical. I mean the people had stories about him. That weren't true. Yes. What kind of a man was he in that sense? What were these really untrue stories that they told about him well, Of course, there's always some truth when he went away from from home. First of all, he would never write my mother would Constantine it's constantly complain that he was being corrupted and that he would only right if he was in boredom. I in the mud flats of Wales and when he would go away first of all before the period of adulation, which did begin to creep up on him on his last year's in his last year's he would go away and join really a clique of writers and they would all dressed up in these sort of Bohemian outfits an excuse for being untidy and dirtiest. Yes, and and where they would meet and where they would discuss things even if he was working for the BBC they would all be round the pub before and after discussing the program. And of course, that is a Temptation and A lot of his talented colleagues took on the roles of of poets and writers who were killing themselves. Unfortunately, my father did in the end. But he wasn't he was only one of many believe me. Well, I'm sure many many professions in many fields, but he was a man who really dearly love life, too. Yes, I think so. I think that it began to go sour when he first came to America and instead of drinking beer. He was offered a stronger drinks. And you can go you can live for years drinking week discussing bitter. Yeah, one more comment about a question about America. Did he like America very much. I know that many people and I'm sure you feel too that it was a deterrent in his life coming here for whatever reasons, but did he did he find that his work suffered or did it help his work in any way by coming here and taking these tours? Well it the Americans for the first people to recognize him as a major Artist as a major writer. So I was grateful to them in that sense, but the pressures of a tour were definitely Beyond him. And so it's one thing writing. It's another performing as we all know here. I have to ask you to perform after that state will perform calmly and I won't push you have a drink. Coffee nut, huh? My poetry has been described by reviewer as Oriental before reading some more. I think I better give my own assessment or not so much my system, but my idea of what it is. It's so I prepared this so it'll sound but rather literary simple Fusion of observations in nature combined with philosophical thought uh-huh. And one of these philosophical thoughts is Fountain and it's about truth. Truth is like a fountain in the center of a garden with many paths leading to it said a nun from Florence who had those formal Italian Gardens in mind the paths like rays of a star each separately leading to the same Center. Don't say I said it she said I'm talking of 17 years ago. I could be excommunicated. The truth is dangerous, but always the same. Another one with a definite philosophical thought was written for Brian inspires that sort of thing and it's called Bridges. I don't think I'll tell you the background to the poem because he gets embarrassed every time I do so, I think I'll just go ahead and read it. Bridges bridges Bridges lead to an island divided from the mainland by an expanse of water to some there's a continual storm to others. It seems variable yet others find it calm the bridges were built by men for an easier Crossing costing many tears almost cross sometime a wait until ferried there a death. The bridges are many take one. Don't be like the proud individual who tried to swim. (00:42:58) That's me. (00:43:00) As you know time. I'm a little bit prudish. I think and a little bit straight-laced in my thoughts. I think that comes from the Welsh side. I descended from a long line of Baptists and methodists preachers and your writing style. You're not with the latest election. Am I? Oh, yes, I am. Apparently Carter said that his favorite reading was Dylan Thomas. So I'm just waiting for an invitation, please we are to the bow to the White House another one, which is more difficult to understand. She's Bears a little exclamation explanation. It's called Ripple if you imagine the Ripple is you or it could be me. It could be anyone and in the last line is reference to the greater Cosmos. If you can imagine that Humanity in general, I'm sure you'll get the gist of it instead. They all these poems that I read. I feel very strongly about the ideas that have been fermenting in my mind for years. It's a wonderful to get them done in a few words. I don't have to think about them anymore. Though I possibly still live by the precepts of them Ripple. From nothing a ripple forms water crinkles, like tissue paper and embryo is born then like a fist and clenching the Ripple widens its Circle relaxing and growing wider in abandon. It releases all restraint grows wider and wider not aware of its short life. Too late. It merges with the great expanse of water nullified in the greater Cosmos. One more to finish and it's called gazelle. And when I say I take the elements of nature, well, of course, I include that as one of the elements of nature is the animal kingdom and I use them. I exploit them unsure as so many of my poems are called gazelle elephant tiger and so on and yes. The Brian tells me that his poetry started off on this sort of vein and on using generalizations and metaphors and so on and now he's come finally ran to the human being and one of his best poems called Blind John. In fact, it's beautiful and I'm hoping to get around to the human being sometimes maybe in my next connection, but I'm still on gazelle here Gizelle. So Fleet of foot he flees where you going little gazelle has no one told you the faster you move the more surely you lose your true destination. There is nowhere to go you were there before you were born That's A Burger King one. Well, I think I've provoked you enough. (00:46:06) I don't mention the poem about truth. This one's called truth. I'm sure it's a different aspect of Truth totally to the one that I don't regret. It's really about lies usually. truth I said the sky was Deep Purple. She said no, it's blue just as the cornfields are golden, but that opium red dye protested. She denied it then look at the tree said I are they not Lotus pale. Not so old trees are green and brown In Summer. She replied finally I pointed to the Moon Harvest big bulging and right there. It's as green as the tide. Can't you see? it's white Pure White taunted she and I learned the truth. I was not the only one she lay with. I lie. Now in the red corn beneath a purple sky wondering why the green moon stares on blinking and the trees are pale resolving that my next girl will be Buttercup yellow even without my tinted spectacles. another now the love poem This time it's called Indian summer. Once we were plentiful on the vast plains hunted the fiery prairies we lay in the Red Hills smoked the pipe of peace and adored our totems through many suns and moons. We rode learned the whales through many suns and moons. We rode learned the ways of the wild and gathered fruits from the forest slip we understood each other signals puzzled the sky with secret messages the years grew tender beneath our consciousness. Then storms blew across the face of our land gritty sand billowed and howled our Spirits fled and the hills were obscured in the darkness. We hunted each other are silent talk was blown to unknown threats. We hid ourselves try to shelter in our own shadows in our confusion. We rode with others. You settled beneath distant Hills and the strange Sky your rivers are controlled and you have your reservations, but I prefer the frightened wind of the evening rights the rituals of rock channel to tolerance new Summits and the Prancing Merrin red heat you ride in rapidly diminishing circles. I in a circle that has no end. sad poem this is an observation that ended in a tragic experience The title is rather important. So that's the listeners to remember the title. It should have been a coach and four horses. Through the coffeehouse window. I watched the slowly approaching woman. She merged into her own generation as she passed the Victorian house, then looked very odd outside the supermarket from around crowned black brimmed hat to hand-knitted Maroon wool socks. She was an apparition of slipped time. Her clothes are interior Darkness blinked at the light looked ill at ease her wrinkled hands emerged with difficulty from the enveloping sleeves one grasp to supporting stick been to she the other curled round a widow empty shopping bag. A shoe so different directions reluctantly Advanced her eyes downcast through source of spectacles mercifully shield in the face of tarnished brass and Hollow mouth slowly ruminated in hope not satisfaction. With coffee lip poised I searched her. Felt I knew her. She unseeing past and stepped ungainly from the pavement on to cobbles. I heard a shriek of breaks a deadened thud a sound of shattering glass in the Silence of shock. a grotesque broken bundle of black like empty in the gutter There would be no sound of horses hooves. Many years ago. I worked as a nurse in a hospital for nervous diseases. And one man in particular, I remembered and many years later wrote this poem. Here's what we call the GPI. He suffered from General paralysis for the enzyme which means that as a young man, he had contracted syphilis. Now, he was in the latest stages of the disease was spread throughout his body. It is quite impossible to even imagine. What he'd been like as a varietal young man when he contracted the disease and just when I was a this was something that you know that stood in my mind for many many years. And then what I supposed triggered off, the writing of the poem was reading something totally different. It was a magazine and Britain. That asked people to notify the editor if they knew of a field that had not been plowed or spoiled in any way or had weed killer on it for at least a hundred years so that they could examine the wildlife of the field. So that's what triggered off the poem I call the poem The Original field. He was once a field wild with flowers. No plow would ever despoil the rugged pattern of windblown seeds slowly seeding towards the deeper repeating stream. Then a warming spirochete had spread a progeny of spores consuming every fiber of his natural wilderness. The day I walked into the furrowed sterility of the city Asylum. I saw no flowers growing in his Gates a gray Mist obscured is Hollows. The wind was still below a word so easy to deny the original field. I thought until his son walked in. This is a poem about a man. That's a true story. His name was John Bowen and he was born just outside of Cardiff the capital city in South Wales in one of the industrial valets. John was blind from birth. But he taught himself to play the accordion he became a busker and you see John around the streets of Cardiff in the arcades in the Pub's playing and collecting money. the first words of the words of his mother Don't you ever lose that walking stick? She always said how could he ever forget his mind's antenna the extended limb of would lovingly gloss white and by his mother not so much for the purpose of being seen but rather to be recognized as blind like lepers used to carry warning Bells. He never knew just how white was white only knew our world were various sounds with shades of light and to be lonely meant the Silence of insistent night indoors a clear bright moons night when closed windows shut out the crackle of frost and ears are tuned to Perfect Pitch to notify faulty read on his accordion identify. The higher octaves of a bot could only hear the symmetry of fear revolving deep within his sightless head. So John became a busker accordion old have a sack and cloth collecting bargain, which he claimed the wherewithal to travel between towns discovering new sounds scraping a strange footpaths the unexpected hand the changing accents ever alerts for chink of copper cupro-nickel. Then an odd. Thanks. For six determined years of thrusting sounds it sounds combined with the acuteness of his ears touch enable John to keep his independence. Then one cold January night found his home tapped his way down cardiff's neon streets ice boned and we are ready for the crowds that stayed at home and not in Clement today. No more was heard of John for many months. Until two men investigated what they thought was gas escaping from a damaged pipe beneath the derelict 3D garms there crouched against the cellar wall. They found blind John his palms still clasping his collecting bag with seven pounds and 14 Pence inside. I know it is my John. his mother said I painted that stick so many times. I recognized the marks on it. But no one could determine from what remained the questions and the scars the blind John carried through his 30 years unanswered. unexplained this visit with Irene way Thomas and Brian Walters was produced by Sandra gear at public radio station WBEZ in Chicago.