Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas

For my next blog post I thought it fitting to pick a Dylan Thomas poem called Fern Hill to reflect on from a psychological perspective. Ferndale is the name I chose for the practice given my connections to this town in the valleys of South Wales and the symbolism of the fern and the dale (see Blog post below), although I could just have easily chosen the name Fern Hill in honour of the celebrated Welsh poet’s famous piece.

Here is the piece, borrowed from poets.org:

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
     The night above the dingle starry,
          Time let me hail and climb
     Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
          Trail with daisies and barley
     Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
     In the sun that is young once only,
          Time let me play and be
     Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
          And the sabbath rang slowly
     In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
     And playing, lovely and watery
          And fire green as grass.
     And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
     Flying with the ricks, and the horses
          Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
     Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
          The sky gathered again
     And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
     Out of the whinnying green stable
          On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
     In the sun born over and over,
          I ran my heedless ways,
     My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
     Before the children green and golden
          Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
     In the moon that is always rising,
          Nor that riding to sleep
     I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
          Time held me green and dying
     Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

From The Poems of Dylan Thomas, published by New Directions. Copyright © 1952, 1953 Dylan Thomas. Copyright © 1937, 1945, 1955, 1962, 1966, 1967 the Trustees for the Copyrights of Dylan Thomas. Copyright © 1938, 1939, 1943, 1946, 1971 New Directions Publishing Corp. Used with permission.

One thing that comes to mind for me is the way in which the arts engage our senses. I can almost hear this piece being recited in Thomas’s lilting Welsh accent, the rhythm of the poem being quite lyrical already. Thomas almost paints a picture with his words, doesn’t he? His use of colour, the repetition of the green motif. Even though parts of his childhood were very different from my own, I can find myself visualizing the scenes he creates as if part of my own memories. Isn’t it interesting how even bringing something to mind can make it seem real? This is often how memories can trip people up, as in post-traumatic stress conditions. Then there’s the texture of his words, like: “And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman” with the hard G sound that is repeated and the softer H sound that follows. And if you’re a really sensory person, maybe someone with sensory sensitivities, perhaps you can even smell the hay in the barn? Or taste the fresh apples?

There is more and more research pointing to the value of getting into our senses and connecting with our bodies, something that modern Western life does not always promote. We are often much too in our heads. Have you had the experience of sitting hunched at your desk all day and only later realizing how tense your shoulders are? Or forgetting to eat or go to the bathroom because you’re too busy then wondering why you have a headache or are “hangry?” Eastern philosophies like mindfulness meditation have been instrumental in teaching the West about the value of being in our bodies. I would guess that Canada’s Indigenous populations were also much more connected to their bodies, with connections to the land, seasons and the natural world, prior to colonization and genocide which wreaked havoc.

It might be interesting to do a little experiment in which you notice your senses. There are so many opportunities during the day for a practice like this, the so called “slow down and smell the roses” moments: grinding coffee, peeling a clementine, applying lotion to your hands, taking a first bite of food, running your fingers through your child’s hair, patting your cat, or “trail[ing] with daisies and barley.” Some of you might have seen the movie Amelie, with the scene where the main character plunges her hand into sacks of grain to enjoy the experience. This is what I’m suggesting you do… just maybe not at the grocery store in COVID times!

Another way in which the arts help us process our own lives is through the process of relating to the piece, through the poet’s or artist’s ability to connect to the reader or viewer. I am brought into memories or ideas of childhood innocence as I read this work. Can you recall the feeling of childhood innocence? Was this a feeling you were lucky enough to have, even if briefly, or was your childhood one in which you felt the burdens of adult life from a young age, maybe due to parental divorce or poverty or racism or domestic violence? Is there anything in your present life that brings this feeling? Looking at old photos, going to the park or the beach?

I am aware of the poem’s Christian themes and I like to think about this as describing a connection with something greater in a spiritual sense, although maybe for some of you your faith is really important and provides you with a capacity to self soothe with prayers and rituals. One way in which spirituality can help us cope with the demands and stresses of life is in its capacity to slow things down and create opportunities for reflection. For some folks, a connection with nature and other living beings is a way to do this.

When for you does time appear to slow down? Have you ever had that experience of “flow” when you get absorbed in something you enjoy and your perception of time shifts? I hear some people talk about this experience while creating art or playing music or even running. It turns out our brains can actually go into a more relaxed and focused state when we are engaged in activities that we find intrinsically rewarding.

Another theme of this poem that often presents itself in therapy is nostalgia, which often shows up at big transitions in peoples’ lives, such as graduation, marriage, childbirth or retirement. What is the feeling of nostalgia like for you? Does it sometimes serve as a guidepost to what is important in your life, maybe a bit of what’s missing that used to bring meaning or joy? Maybe it points to regrets, a difficult feeling for many people, as the reality of choices made or not made sets in, the proverbial “road not taken.” Fern Hill seems to describe a time where there are no demands besides roaming the countryside freely from dawn until dusk. Wouldn’t we all like to have more times like that? Unfortunately we have to enjoy these times when we can, because they are sometimes few and far between. Acceptance of life’s demands, of regular tasks like laundry and dishes, of the need to work and caregive for self and others, is also helpful.

Of course this poem also points to existential concerns: the fact that for everyone, life ends in death. It is no surprise to me that poetry is often read at funerals- the comfort of the written and spoken word as a way of making sense of things is not lost on most people. Perhaps you’re someone who regularly journals or blogs or writes letters as a way to make sense of life. Although the poet Dylan Thomas’s life ended early, likely in part due to substance abuse, his writings surely helped him cope while living. Being in touch with our senses, honouring our feelings and how they guide us, and finding meaning when we can are ways in which we can all attempt to live rich, full and meaningful lives.