Still Poetry Month

1-05 Fern Hill
I feel like I grew up with Dylan Thomas, though he had succumbed to alcoholism when I was young. My mother read him and his poetry was around the house. I love hearing “A Child’s Christmas in Wales” every winter. I was fortunate to go to a school where our headmaster read it to us.
The passion of his reading, reading any poet’s poem, was thrilling and brought the vibrancy of his observations to my ears.
Once I spoke to a friend in graduate school, we talked about Dylan. She said, “Oh my professor said he reads Fern Hill all wrong.” And then she went on to elaborate. I can’t remember what she said. I can’t think what it matters. How can you read a poem wrong? Particularly if you wrote it!
Today I want to open my ears to listen to sounds as they are. Dylan reading Dylan. Dylan reading anything. My own reading. What anyone says, what my dog is barking, what the cars sound like as they round the hill near my house.
Listen and be and celbrate what is.
That’s It for today.

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