The third early poem I'd like to read you
is, in fact, an elegy for Dylan Thomas.
I was born and brought up in South Wales.
And at the time, indeed, when Dylan Thomas, the poet,
was ubiquitous.
And indeed very recently, I was--
had much thinking to do about Dylan Thomas
because I was in Westminster Abbey
because there was a memorial service for him.
Anyway, in 1953, in November 1953 when he died,
like many others, I wrote an elegy to Dylan Thomas.
I'd like to read it to you.
But before I do so, may I describe a page
from my autobiography in which I outline how I never really
met him properly.
This meeting took place in a London pub.
"My one and only meeting with Dylan Thomas
occurred in the Swiss Cottage Pub.
I sat at the table on my own when Dylan Thomas came in
with a companion.
His friend edged towards the bar.
And Dylan himself, looking like his photograph,
made for my table.
At that time, I was full of admiration for his poetry.
Many of the poems that were soon to be collected in death
meant he would be given an airing
in the literary magazines, and I had been spellbound by them.
As he settled himself in the chair next to me,
I grew hysterical in my silence.
I wanted to come out to say that I liked his poetry.
On the other hand, I didn't wish to presume,
and certainly I didn't want my mouth to be full of soap.
Finally, I ventured timidly.
'You're Dylan Thomas.'
He turned his head surprised.
'I think you know my cousin, Leo Solomon,
from Swansea,' I added quickly.
'Who?' 'Leo Solomon.'
Dylan Thomas being puzzled.
My cousin had told me that he knew Dylan well,
that they were old buddies, that he
had taken Dylan back many a time to my uncle's, his father's
house.
'Leo Solomon, the painter,' I said desperately.
Dylan Thomas hardly reacted.
He seemed shy and preoccupied.
His friend at the bar was having difficulty
enjoying the barmaid's attention.
I began to wish that I hadn't spoken,
that I had not blundered so familiarly.
It was too late now.
'Leo Solomon, my cousin, the painter from Swansea,' I
insisted.
I had spoken very slowly with great deliberation,
and I had hoped Dylan Thomas didn't
think I was treating him as a moron
or as one deaf who needed to lip read.
'Yes,' said Dylan Thomas at last,
and looked around furtively, obviously wanting to get away.
Embarrassed, I thought it best to quit.
After a decent interval of one and 1/2 minutes,
I finished off a half pint of beer I'd been half drinking
and rose.
'Bye,' I said to Dylan Thomas.
He half smiled.
He also half rose with deep courtesy and said, 'Bye, Mr.
Solomon.'
Naturally I wanted to tell him my real name.
My name is Dannie Abse.
The ego clamor in me wanted to cry, and I write poetry, too.
I said nothing, of course.
The bar door swung behind me, and I
was on the Swiss cottage pavement walking nowhere,
making up witty remarks, that had I said them,
or have I reassured myself had Dylan Thomas, or rather
good old Dylan, in laughing stitches."