'The Journey of the Magi' by TS Eliot and 'A Child's Xmas in Wales' by Dylan Thomas.
'The Journey of the Magi' is inseparable from the memory of my small hand in my Mother's as we would walk in icy fog and stillness out of Harriet St, down Hollings Road, left into Thornton Road, past the mill where she worked, past the hangman's house on Bilton Place, along City Road and Rebecca Street to midnight mass at St Patrick's RC Church in Bradford.
With the contrast of a small patch of light around the crib within the vast darkness of the church, not far away the tortured Christ hangs in hyper-realistic agony contemplating the story of a death foretold. 'In my beginning is my end'
The Church Fathers knew their dramatic lighting effects and how to make an insoluble claim on the spiritual imagination of small children.
I think of an adult trip many years later to prehistoric caves in the Pyrenees and the recapturing of that unbounded sense of awe, elation and some fear at the 20,000 year old paintings that were the focus of initiation of the young for millenia. How deep this need in time of darkness, hardship, cold and hunger to discover or reaffirm the guiding myth that will lead us as individuals, family and community.
There is always the insatiable need for stories to give ourselves hope in the face of the enormity of existence.
In complete contrast, Dylan Thomas himself reads this 1952 recording of 'A Child's Xmas in Wales'. The Caedmon vinyl recording was one of the very few records I bought as a young teenager after I had been introduced to Thomas by our inspirational English teacher, Mr Leadbetter.
I have specific instructions about introducing a smaller son or daughter, grandchild, nephew or even a small niece or two: on your knee or tucked comfortable up next to you start listening from the beginning. At about two thirds of the way through listen for the cue as Thomas intones - 'Now bring out the Tall Stories..... the Ghosts...' hold them a little more tightly and instruct them to 'listen for the ghost'........ and then enjoy the delicious relief and laughter....
Does Chloé know this one yet, Allan? She already has the gift of Mrs Prospero earlier in the story, who, when confronted by the 'three tall firemen', knew exactly what to say.....
THE JOURNEY OF THE MAGI
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snowline, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different: the Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms.
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
Eliot
Thomas
And just to prove that children aren't just for Xmas in Wales - Cardiff demonstration, 2015...
With the contrast of a small patch of light around the crib within the vast darkness of the church, not far away the tortured Christ hangs in hyper-realistic agony contemplating the story of a death foretold. 'In my beginning is my end'
The Church Fathers knew their dramatic lighting effects and how to make an insoluble claim on the spiritual imagination of small children.
I think of an adult trip many years later to prehistoric caves in the Pyrenees and the recapturing of that unbounded sense of awe, elation and some fear at the 20,000 year old paintings that were the focus of initiation of the young for millenia. How deep this need in time of darkness, hardship, cold and hunger to discover or reaffirm the guiding myth that will lead us as individuals, family and community.
There is always the insatiable need for stories to give ourselves hope in the face of the enormity of existence.
In complete contrast, Dylan Thomas himself reads this 1952 recording of 'A Child's Xmas in Wales'. The Caedmon vinyl recording was one of the very few records I bought as a young teenager after I had been introduced to Thomas by our inspirational English teacher, Mr Leadbetter.
I have specific instructions about introducing a smaller son or daughter, grandchild, nephew or even a small niece or two: on your knee or tucked comfortable up next to you start listening from the beginning. At about two thirds of the way through listen for the cue as Thomas intones - 'Now bring out the Tall Stories..... the Ghosts...' hold them a little more tightly and instruct them to 'listen for the ghost'........ and then enjoy the delicious relief and laughter....
Does Chloé know this one yet, Allan? She already has the gift of Mrs Prospero earlier in the story, who, when confronted by the 'three tall firemen', knew exactly what to say.....
THE JOURNEY OF THE MAGI
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snowline, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different: the Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms.
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
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