The pain behind his gratitude is palpable.
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ack in Liverpool and in her family home, short trip by theFerry Cross the Mersey to Wallasey, Jacqui and I readDylan Thomas’ poems to each other in bed late at night.Her accent was Welsh and, paradoxically, further fromtheir author’s than mine. Dylan’s elocution lessons hadgiven him a rich theatrical voice suited to the BBC. Somany lines and images remain with me from those days. I *Lycett, Andrew. Dylan Thomas: A New Life (Emplacements du Kindle 4966-4969).Orion Publishing Group. Edition du Kindle. 13 can quote whole poems by rote. It was she also who firstgave me a book that contained A Child’s Christmas inWales. It became, like Under Milk Wood, one of myfavorite prose works. More than twenty-five years later,after a twelve mile hike through the wilder parts of NewMexico, stalked by a bear, I was cooking salmon for myfriend Tom Creegan in his geodesic dome as he told mehow he has read this story to his daughter on ChristmasDay every year since she was born. Christmas has always been a special time for me. It bringsreflection and pause, and so many memories of friends andlovers long lost. I recall blessed and joyous times in Pragueas the snow fell, walking from Belohorska 53, downhillpast the castle to Charles Bridge as the snow fell lightly.The streets were almost deserted. Communism had justfallen. It seemed as if nothing had changed since 1948. Orin Munich, late nights at the opera, wading through thesnow to the Franziskana. Perhaps my happiest memory isspending Christmas with the Pueblo Indians in Taos; hugebonfires and the procession of the Madonna from the adobechurch into the dark night, us all wrapped in blankets.There were also Christmas times of horrifying lonelinessand deep pain. On one Christmas Day, if my friend LarryLarson hadn’t opened his office on rue Croulebarbe for acouple of hours, I would have spent the whole day withoutspeaking to a soul. I was so deep in pain I could barelymake it there and sit in the chair to talk with him. I didn’teat that day. I had just lost my son. I had no one to turn to,nowhere else to go. If there is anything that has always given me the strength togo on through the hardest of times it is music and literature.In Dylan Thomas’ writings I found both. He has been asource of great happiness and solace. For many peopleChristmas is more a time of suffering than joy. Christ oftengets somehow forgotten in the mix. At a time of year wheneveryone is expected to be happy and joyous, filled withgood cheer and charity, many find themselves truly alone.If they do then I hope they will have something, if notsomeone, that gives them the strength to endure the painand to see the beauty of the world anew. Dylan Thomas hasthe ability to touch the core of people, to bring people tothe light from darkness. In that spirit I humbly offer thisChristmas gift. This story is about a Christmas he onlyimagined. Yet, it illustrates the power of the imagination totouch and heal the lives of others. Writers frequentlysacrifice themselves so that their experience, and theretelling of it, may save others. This great andcompassionate poet was, in my opinion, a Holy man.Intoxicated more by language than drink, he sought to healand bless us all. Happy Christmas!
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