I Phone A Friend

I phoned Bob this week, after years of thinking about him, sending and receiving Christmas cards. Happily, joyfully, he's well, in his 90s now. North London's still audible in his vowels, although he moved away, as I did, years ago.

When we met, I was 5 or 6 years old, and he was around 40. He had been widowed: devastated by the death of his first wife, and turned up at my father's church, looking for consolation. I was bored, hanging around, at a loose end while something was going on: prayer, singing, meeting, adults chatting - something a 5-year-old couldn't, or wouldn't, share. 

There I was, small, awkward for my age, idling, waiting (it turns out) for a hand to hold -  metaphorically, emotionally, psychologically, and literally. 

"I noticed you," Bob recalled towards the end of our conversation, "and prayed that you would come and hold my hand. And you did." 

I thought, momentarily, of naming this blog I Answer A Prayer, but my views on prayer are complicated. I realise this is one of the reasons I haven't phoned Bob for so long. I didn't want him to be disappointed that I've turned out poet, not angel. 

In c.1969, Bob and I, separated by a generation, were attuned to each other in the way that human beings can sometimes be, despite the gaps between us. His prayer a call, my response a sense that here was someone safe. What did we notice in each other? Gesture, tone of voice, openness? 

After our phone call, I know that Bob understands, looking back, that I needed his care as much as he needed mine, and, we spoke of this for the first time. "Your father was very disciplined," he understated.

 He prayed. I walked over, took him by the hand, hung on. 

I loved Bob, and for a year at least, we used to sit together in a pew at the back left-hand side of the church each Sunday. I can picture my young self, all unbrushed hair and hand-me-down clothes, walking through the west door and up the aisle. I'd see the back of Bob's head and run the last steps to join him. He was always in a suit, shirt pressed, hair neat, tie tied, shoes polished. He was never late, never missed a Sunday, never passed judgement on my disheveled appearance. I sat next to him during the interminable services, small and fidgety, comforted by his presence.  

When I was older, 7 I think, I joined the choir, and suggested to Bob that he married Vera, though I'm now sure he'd already had the idea himself. They married, and Bob moved into the flat at the bottom of the vicarage where Vera lived. They often looked after me and my brothers when my parents were busy, and didn't complain about us jumping down the stairs onto their ceiling, riding our bicycles through their washing. 

Bob and Vera were lovely together: for more than twenty years till her death, they found happiness in each other, and a shared way of being. They illuminated the years of my childhood with kindness, cheerfulness, creativity, and play.  

When Bob and I finished our conversation I cried a little, feeling both loss and a sense of exhilaration. The connection between a sad young man and a little girl, albeit five decades ago in another dimension, is still real and it is still comfortable. 

What will survive of us is love.

Photo - Mike Powell

What will survive of us is love is the final line of Larkin's poem 'An Arundel Tomb' 

I Get Through Four Corkscrews

In the new year, planning ahead for January, I ordered six half bottles of wine from the excellent wine merchants, Tanners, just down the hill from where I live tanners-wines.co.uk. I find the 375ml size just right for drinking alone - enough for a weekend supper with some to spare: a splash in the pot, more in a glass, and then a bit more. I make up for quantity with quality, but what I didn't foresee was that I'd need almost as many corkscrews as wine bottles. 

Just for a change, risotto was on the menu last week, so I needed to open a white. Risotto without a dash of white wine is like risotto without a dash of white wine. The thing about buying quality wine is that it still often comes with a cork. My first attempt snapped my best, if elderly, corkscrew. My second snapped my reserve corkscrew. I checked the other bottles of white - no screw tops. I went up  into the attic to find my camping corkscrew - it was nowhere to be seen. As I rummaged through my camping detritus - pots, a pepper mill, torches, and plastic plates, I imagined it buried in a field in Wales, sprouting miniature bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. 

Back in the kitchen, I pulled at what was left of corkscrew #1. I regretted not working out more regularly during lockdown. I have started grinding coffee beans by hand once a day, but this doesn't seem to have increased my upper body strength. I need levers, physics, and fewer reminders of my weaknesses. I abandonned thoughts of risotto, turned to omelette and beer. The protein might build me up. 

What else to do next, these lockdown days, dear reader, but get onto Amazon, order a corkscrew for next day delivery. How quickly that's become the first next thought. And now you'll be admiring the restraint which prevented me from using my teeth, but criticising my ethics and undermining of local businesses. I confess I panicked. The town centre was dark and quiet. The sight of the bottle with twisted metal stems protruding like mutant flowers felt like a problem which needed an immediate solution. 

Corkscrew #3 was delivered as promised the next day (I received notification) but wherever it arrived it wasn't on my doormat. After an undignified online chat with Jed, whose looping conversation suggested to me that he may (or may not) have been a person, I had a much better idea. I phoned a local kitchen shop, and yes, the owner was in, sorting stock, and yes, after much rummaging and commentary about the rush on corkscrew supplies, she said they had one left in stock, and were allowed to sell it to me at the shop door if I could come straightaway. 

I'm struggling for an analogy here, but like a .... [furrowed brow] ... like a ... oh I don't know ... like something coming very fast out of a tight spot, I shot out from my front door, masked up, sanitiser in my pocket, and 15 minutes, one conversation about corkscrews, and one contactless transaction later, I was triumphant, in possession of corkscrew #4. 

As I walked back home, and past the shop I live next door to, I glanced through its glass door. The Christmas decorations were still up, and the tree lights twinkling. And there, on the floor, was an Amazon package, addressed to me.

I Relax With Dr Zhivago

Forty years ago, my first boyfriend told me how much he liked the film Dr Zhivago (released 1965). I wonder if this was early on in our relationship, when we were trying to impress, and our feelings were intense, or later on, when we'd run out of things to say, and our feelings were intense? Was he trying to tell me he was in love with Julie Christie? I think I might have been in love with Julie Christie, or with wanting to be Julie Christie, having seen her in Darling whilst staying for a weekend with my more relaxed Catholic cousins. I'm not sure he was recommending I watch it, because how could I, in those days of 1) No TV (my parents' choice), 2) No VHS (natural consequence of 1) 3) Reliance on re-releases at the cinema, or visits to my Catholic cousins coinciding with TV showings and three hours to spare on a Saturday evening. Question mark.  

I saw Gone with the Wind at a cinema on the Holloway Road, London N1 one afternoon with a school friend, I presume in the school holidays. I skipped school a couple of times, behaviour which left me feeling guilty and behind with my Marlow, but I wouldn't have had the courage to play truant and go to the cinema. I remember that the upper circle was nearly empty. 

Mentioning Gone with the Wind may seem tangential, but it proves that in those days I sometimes had four-hours-plus-interval to spare. Later, when I was married, and we had a TV, and later still when we had a VHS player, I never had the inclination to go to Blockbuster and rent an epic film. I was too busy with Frasier boxsets lent by my brother, and then Fireman Sam.

What a lucky chance, then, that Dr Zhivago, is currently on iPlayer, and that after forty years of adventures I have 1) A TV, 2) A TV licence, 3) A range of techniques learnt in psychotherapy enabling me to side-step any feelings of guilt incurred by watching a film whilst it's still light outside. We all need doctors more than ever these days, so maybe it was this that prompted me, finally, to satisfy my curiosity, watch the film. 

As it turns out, Dr Zhivago is more like early 2021 Shropshire than you'd think, filled as it is with snow, difficult decisions, furs, untimely deaths, beautiful vistas, confusion, heroes, quiet resolve, and drumbeats. And with trains (although ours are largely empty). We also lack a famous, but strangely irritating as the hours ticked by, theme tune.

It was halfway through my viewing, snuggled under my favourite faux fur rug as dusk fell, that I remembered that it was, in fact, my granny who'd first made me aware of Dr Zhivago. She'd be 120 if alive now, and first in the queue for a COVID-19 vaccine. Before experiencing a love of my own, she'd talked to me of hers - among them Yves Montand, Jacques Brel, and the compassionate, flawed, gallant, implausible talent that was Omar Sharif - Dr Zhivago himself. 

I Await The New Year

With an hour to go till midnight, and this year's end, I'm in a reflective mood. 

The one thing 2020 wasn't, was the year of perfect vision.

One thing 1st January 2021 won't be, is a clean break with the past.

What can be new about a new year? What can be made new in our lives - the days which include loss and growth, hopeful watching, and cautious fear?

Each day of it. Each dawn. Each chance to wake into morning and take it as a gift. 

Yesterday I walked in sunshine on snow-covered hills. My feet slipped on ice, but when I stood still and looked up, I was dazzled by clean light. Today, I cycled down avenues striped by the shadows of stripped trees. My feet grew cold, but when I stopped in sunlight, I warmed as if I'd the capacity for stillness, like a lizard on rock.

Much will be the same tomorrow as it has been in this passing year, yet I am resolved to find something new in each day of it.

I Commit To Paper

On Wednesday evening, I launched I Buy A New Washer (and Other Moderate Acts of Independence) by Zoom, from my bathroom. I decided on the bathroom location as the book has its origins in my learning to change a tap washer back in 2014, albeit in a different bathroom. I was so proud of my achievement that I started a blog in order to let people know about the experience. 

From that act of minor independence to now, I have written around 250 entries, now edited to a book of 52 short essays which span the course of a year. You can read the endorsements on the back cover - they'll give you a flavour of what it's about. 

I enjoyed  the book launch enormously, not least because so many people I care about were able to attend. I also like my book, which (as those of you who have published your work) is not guaranteed. I like the feel of it, the cover design, the thickness of the paper, guaranteeing no show-through. I like the colour of the font in which the title and my name appear (teal, I think).  It's a physical treat to pick it up, feel the smooth cover, open it to its first white, thick, blank page, turn that page to see the title again. It's still too early for me to look much further. Now that I've committed to paper, I know I won't be able to hover my cursor over a sentence to insert a missing Oxford comma, if there is one. 

Committing to paper meant eschewing the photographs I often use in the digital realm for drawings by John Rae. These lift the whole to a cheerfulness which is more Billy Collins than Philip Larkin, something I could not have achieved alone. Whilst I admire Larkin, of course, and all the other slightly depressed poets, you can bet Collins has had more fun. 

From deepest Somerset, Krakow, Edinburgh, and Wem they logged in to wish the book well on its journey into the world, and what is more, they brought their own drinks. I told you they were a generous crowd. For Penny in Western Australia, it was 4.30 am the next day. My editor Ross Donlon (Mark Time Books) was even further ahead -- 7.30 am in Castlemaine, Victoria. This skillful display of time and distance travel was all part of the ride.

Although moving from the digital (this blog) to the page (that book) may seem counter-cultural, for me it's been necessary at a time when so much of my time is spent staring at a screen a couple of feet away from my varifocals. The book weighs in at 210g. I know this because I've weighed it (plus packaging) in order to post it out to readers. 

If you would like to buy a copy of your very own, they cost £10 each including second class UK postage. If you want to get a first class postal service, add 50 pence. Email me at liz.lefroy@btinternet.com to let me know your requirements. If it's a gift, I can giftwrap and add a card for another £1 and post it straight to the recipient. If you live outside the UK, I can work out the postage rates. 

You can also find I Buy A New Washer (and Other Moderate Acts of Independence) in the Poetry Pharmacy in Bishops Castle, and Pengwern Books, Shrewsbury. And there is a lending copy at Shrewsbury Library, (although the librarian I've been dealing with has taken it home for the weekend, so you may have to wait your turn). I will sort out a wider means of distribution in the new year. 

I'm deeply grateful to those who suggested this project to me, in particular Ross Donlon and Anna Dreda. I am so grateful to you, my readers. Some of you -- Peter, Kev, Anna, Graham, Helen, Morar, Mike (and it turns out, Zoe!) -- have been reading diligently for years. 

When I started this blog in 2014, I thought it would be a playground in which I could practise my poetry writing skills. What I've discovered is that playfulness / mucking about / having fun / being spontaneous (and moderately independent) suits me. 

I Bring Glad Tidings

In an age of bad news, 24 hour news, Twitter gobbets, news segments, and filets, glad tidings seem preferable. Glad Tidings of Great Joy, sang the angels, that first Christmas. "Fake news!" say some, but that's missing the point. If angels bring glad tidings, I've encountered more than a few recently. 

I've started a list to explain what I mean:

1. Outside In, a group of dedicated, thoughtful, experienced and willing-to-be-vulnerable individuals whose lives are not easy for a variety of reasons, have won a social care accolade. I work with this group, and they are phenomenal. Watch the glad tidings here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TM__2YgCD7U You'll also see other people from across social care settings in Wales who give of themselves, and do so gladly. 

2. Students at St Hugh's College, Oxford, said, 'So what?' to lockdown, and compiled a virtual advent Nine Lessons and Carols: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bfPr1ZMDAoQ  as did many other colleges and universities in the UK and beyond. These young people, who've spent a term in various forms of isolation, make themselves vulnerable by singing in their rooms, recording, splicing it all together. They know it will be flawed, and it's extra beautiful as a result. Reaching the top notes without a hitch is not an angel requirement. They choose to use the privileges of their youth to record a service which has brought comfort and joy to the 281 people who've watched it so far. 

3. Those scientists who've been working on vaccines, vulnerable to criticism and false claims of conspiracy. Those health professionals who are working out how to get it to, and in us, routinely working 12, 14 hour days, vulnerable to exhaustion. 

4. Teachers going into schools day after day, carrying on regardless, working harder than ever, risking the vulnerability of exposure to C-19 on our behalf. 

Angels: they're everywhere, shown up not by bright light and lofty positions, but by their willingness to engage with the grit and the grist of human experience.  

I'm so glad I know so many of them.

I Review Lucy Ingrams' Light-fall

All That Is Most Hopeful

Light-

           fall

by Lucy Ingrams

Flarestack

After heartbreak, the thought of another love, a tender love, can become a dry territory to be skirted, or walled off. Not in Lucy Ingrams’ Light-fall. Here, ‘loved me    loved me not’ exist in the same breaths and curvatures, to love, have loved, ‘is to carry  …  is to be carried away.’

Reading these poems again and again has enabled for me a different vision of what it is to be alert and sentient in the world after a thinning love: they are open with courage, even when (especially when?) ‘weary of flowers’.

Bound in the familiarly confident Flarestack style, each page holds levers, phrases and twists of sound, which shift and interact to unlock sensations of light and thorn, and above all a strange hope.

It is rare to find a pamphlet in which every poem sings, and I enjoyed so much about this from the very start. Its lines flex, supple as the sea rendered in the exquisite opening poem, Swimmer, right up to the final exhalation of Blue hour. The rich imagery of intimacy and distance ranges across landscapes and seasons, with an originality that requires close attention.

‘Can / you-in-me really heal?’ asks Ingrams in Lammas. Yes. And what is more, she has made the intimacies of a love’s passing available to her readers as a balm, beautiful as skylark song, strawberry light, and greenwood.

Light-fall is available from flarestackpoets@gmail.com