WEBVTT

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The third early poem
I'd like to read you

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is, in fact, an elegy
for Dylan Thomas.

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I was born and brought
up in South Wales.

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And at the time, indeed,
when Dylan Thomas, the poet,

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was ubiquitous.

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And indeed very
recently, I was--

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had much thinking to
do about Dylan Thomas

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because I was in
Westminster Abbey

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because there was a
memorial service for him.

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Anyway, in 1953, in
November 1953 when he died,

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like many others, I wrote
an elegy to Dylan Thomas.

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I'd like to read it to you.

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But before I do so,
may I describe a page

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from my autobiography in which
I outline how I never really

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met him properly.

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This meeting took
place in a London pub.

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"My one and only meeting
with Dylan Thomas

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occurred in the
Swiss Cottage Pub.

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I sat at the table on my own
when Dylan Thomas came in

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with a companion.

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His friend edged
towards the bar.

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And Dylan himself, looking
like his photograph,

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made for my table.

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At that time, I was full of
admiration for his poetry.

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Many of the poems that were
soon to be collected in death

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meant he would be
given an airing

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in the literary magazines, and
I had been spellbound by them.

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As he settled himself
in the chair next to me,

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I grew hysterical in my silence.

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I wanted to come out to say
that I liked his poetry.

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On the other hand, I
didn't wish to presume,

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and certainly I didn't want
my mouth to be full of soap.

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Finally, I ventured timidly.

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'You're Dylan Thomas.'

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He turned his head surprised.

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'I think you know my
cousin, Leo Solomon,

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from Swansea,' I added quickly.

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'Who?' 'Leo Solomon.'

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Dylan Thomas being puzzled.

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My cousin had told me
that he knew Dylan well,

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that they were old
buddies, that he

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had taken Dylan back many a
time to my uncle's, his father's

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house.

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'Leo Solomon, the painter,'
I said desperately.

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Dylan Thomas hardly reacted.

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He seemed shy and preoccupied.

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His friend at the bar
was having difficulty

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enjoying the
barmaid's attention.

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I began to wish that
I hadn't spoken,

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that I had not
blundered so familiarly.

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It was too late now.

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'Leo Solomon, my cousin,
the painter from Swansea,' I

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insisted.

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I had spoken very slowly
with great deliberation,

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and I had hoped
Dylan Thomas didn't

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think I was treating
him as a moron

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or as one deaf who
needed to lip read.

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'Yes,' said Dylan
Thomas at last,

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and looked around furtively,
obviously wanting to get away.

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Embarrassed, I thought
it best to quit.

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After a decent interval
of one and 1/2 minutes,

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I finished off a half pint of
beer I'd been half drinking

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and rose.

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'Bye,' I said to Dylan Thomas.

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He half smiled.

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He also half rose with deep
courtesy and said, 'Bye, Mr.

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Solomon.'

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Naturally I wanted to
tell him my real name.

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My name is Dannie Abse.

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The ego clamor in me wanted to
cry, and I write poetry, too.

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I said nothing, of course.

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The bar door swung
behind me, and I

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was on the Swiss cottage
pavement walking nowhere,

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making up witty remarks,
that had I said them,

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or have I reassured myself
had Dylan Thomas, or rather

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good old Dylan, in
laughing stitches."

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