Love's the only engine of survival

I'm going to have to ban early morning phone calls from my younger son; they never bring good tidings. In January it was the death of David Bowie, his voice tender because he knew how upset I'd be. Our shared desolation at the outcome of the EU referendum in June was mirrored this Wednesday last by horror at Donald Trump's ascent to power.  This morning he was too upset himself to get the words out, but I guessed straightaway.  There was no one else left.

I was 14 when I first encountered Leonard Cohen in 1976. I was on an exchange visit to Bordeaux; he was singing in French and called Graeme Allwright.  I soon tracked down the originals of these cover versions and Leonard took over the soundtrack of my life, a conglomerate father/older brother/lover/husband/ mentor figure who addressed my needs in a way the actual men in my life couldn't or wouldn't. (Though to be fair, my older brother never existed.)  And unlike real-life Leonard - or, indeed, my later, eventual ex-husband - my personal Leonard was constant, always there. If anyone in that particular relationship ever drifted off for too long, it was me.

I've never found him depressing (though I do avoid listening to some of his songs when things aren't good - notably, Dress Rehearsal Rag). In fact, I'd say it was the other way around - when I've been at my lowest and turned to him, his songs and poems have lifted me. I think it's because although his great theme is endings - the loss, mess, despair and emotional exhaustion of them - he shows us their beauty too. 

But now - with the exception of Alan Garner - my heroes are gone, all within the space of three years - first, Seamus Heaney, then Terry Pratchett and David Bowie, and now Leonard Cohen. White, English-speaking men - I know - and flawed too, at least in the case of the singers. But as Leonard himself put it 'Ring the bells that still can ring/Forget your perfect offering/There is a crack in everything/That's how the light gets in'. And between them, they've taught me the importance of recognising beauty in the moment and celebrating it, that being good and being nice are not the same thing, that being yourself and pushing beyond your comfort zone is vital to creativity, and how to pick yourself up again and again and carry on with grace to the end.  

Finally, that I'm not alone. 

Recently, some of Leonard's darker, prophetic songs from the 80s have taken on a new insistency as our island turns in on itself, quoting the John of Gaunt death-bed speech out of context as usual, and a quasi-fascistic mindset takes hold in the country formerly known as the land of the free.  And, as a friend observed earlier, without the certainty that somewhere far to the west Leonard is writing and sleeping and eating and fiddling about on that Casio keyboard of his makes this lurch to the far right even harder to bear. But from the same song that contains such catastrophic images of war - 'The Future' - one line stands out today. It is 'love's the only engine of survival', and this is the route map he left us. 

Kings, Collies, Clevedon, the Wordsworths and World Book Night

I wish every week was like this last one.

Wednesday night I ventured to Bedminster to see Richard II at the Tobacco Factory – an excellent production, as always, with an outstanding performance by John Heffernan as the deluded and decadent king whose eventual self-knowledge is all the more moving for his former folly. One day I would love to see each play in the tetraology one after the other – Richard II, Henry IV Parts I (one of my O-level set texts) and II, which contains the funniest scene I’ve ever seen in the theatre, and Henry V, which has so much resonance for my uneducated war-veteran father that I would hold him up as an example to anyone who thinks Shakespeare irrelevant.  The Bristol Old Vic put on the two Henry IVs back-to-back some years ago and that was hugely enjoyable, but the whole sweep of story would be even better.

Thursday it was Can Openers at the Central Library, the guest poet this time Ros Martin. As usual there was an eclectic mix of poems.  Piece of the day for me was Dru Marland’s, about her border collie, Bessie.  It’s no mean feat to write an unsentimental poem about a pet; this one is touching but hilarious also. 

On Friday, having despatched both my poetry manuscript and the contract for my novel to Ronnie and Dawn at Indigo Dreams, and had a look at Dru’s progress re the artwork for the latter, it was off to Clevedon in her Morris Traveller - the perfect ramshackle vehicle for such a genteel watering-hole.

First, we visited the Sheela-na-gig at St Andrew’s, Clevedon, who was looking simultaneously acrobatic and self-possessed: 

Then, as the church was locked, we followed Poets’ Walk around the headland to Clevedon Pill (the poets in question being Coleridge, and Tennyson whose friend Arthur Henry Hallam, for whom he wrote In Memoriam, is buried in the church).  It was a sunny spring-like day and the views over the mud to Worlebury Hill were magnificent.  Dru’s a great person to jaunt with because she knows stuff.  I’ve always envied people who can identify birds at 1000 paces and recognise their songs. Now, thanks for Dru, I can pick out the the yaffling of green woodpeckers and the lovely bubbling call of the curlew. 

Back at St Andrew’s the organist was practicing, so we sneaked through the door.  Unfortunately he’d almost finished and told us so, whereupon my brain immediately went AWOL and I didn't see anywhere near as much as I'd have liked, but apparently the church is open more often in the summer.  I only wish I’d listened to exactly when.   

Then on to Seeley’s Bookshop as Dru had some books to drop off.  What an amazing emporium!  It clearly hasn’t changed at all since the 1970s, inside or out.  The fittings, the flooring, even the stock is dated – when did you last see an old-style Dymo machine on sale?  

 Back to Bristol feeling as if I’d travelled 16 miles down the coast but decades back in time.  Before taking my leave of Dru, we stopped off in Shirehampton to see what she describes as  ‘the Co-op where the Wordsworths stayed’.  And it’s true, look!

Alack, another black hole in my Heducashun!

In Durdham Down Bookshop, whither I popped to pick up my copies of ‘The World’s Wife’ for World Book Night, I got talking to the owner, Kathryn, and she offered me a literary evening for my poetry collection when it’s published.  Pinch me someone, quick.

Finally it was off to Chepstow yesterday in the company of my old friend, Liz, for a poetry reading in the Drill Hall by Carol Ann Duffy and Gillian Clarke – a very pleasing bit of synchronicity considering I was giving away 48 copies of the above mentioned collection.  Both Gillian and Carol Ann were very obliging in person, though I did cringe a little when the latter asked me how I’d settled on ‘The World’s Wife’ as my first choice of book for World Book Night.  George Washington-esque to the last, I blurted that actually, ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time’ had been my first choice, on account of having autistic offspring and being keen to do what I can to raise awareness of the condition.  To her credit, our Laureate laughed heartily at this, and I was able to add, swiftly, that on the whole, I much preferred poetry to prose and it had been in no way disappointing to be able to scatter her poems far and wide. So hopefully I won't get sent to the Tower.

And I came away with eight signed tomes to intersperse with the others, so that some lucky recipients will get an unexpected bonus.  Though it’s going to be hard to part with this one: