Review of Frost Fair by Carol Ann Duffy
By: Michael A. Arnold
I do not know how long this has been happening. For the past few years, around Christmas time, I've seen these little festive-themed books appearing in shops, written by Carol Ann Duffy. They are too bulky to be genuine pocketbooks, but with bright, quite artistic cover designs they are quite charming, and being short poems, they can be read in about 10 minutes – just to give yourself a bit of the Christmas spirit. They could be called 'Stocking Books.'
Carol Ann Duffy is a major modern British poet, born in 1955 to a working class family in Glasgow, she has had a lot of success through writing. Her work is studied in schools and universities, at least in the UK, and she was the British poet laureate from 2009 to 2019. Often her poetry focuses on everyday things, but often with an eloquence and use of fantasy that makes these moments extraordinary in surprising ways. In the poem 'Prayer,' as an example, little moments of joy like the sound of a train, or the wind blowing through a tree can as much a prayer as praying in a church. This sort of thing has made her popular with critics and with the general public.
Carol's attention to small moments is also seen in her latest 'Stocking Book,' called [Frost Fair], first published in 2019 by Picador and illustrated by David De Las Heras. The paintings are very apt for this kind of book, they have a minimalist style that reminds one of something like Pieter Bruegel's [The Hunters in the Snow], or something like that, illustrating the events of the poem. Because it is a story told in evenly shaped and rhyming stanzas, this poem has a very Victorian, old fashioned feel to it. It is, in a word, very 'comfy' and there is probably a place for more books like this in our modern world.
The poem, as alluded to in the last paragraph, does have a story. It is set in London during the Great Winter of 1683, when there was a mini ice age, and it became so cold the entire Thames river froze solid.
In this frozen, wintery London we have an unnamed narrator who dresses as a man, and wonders around the city, even the little town that was built on the frozen river itself, seeing all the people trying to live through and enjoy the uncommonly cold winter they are having. As we read, it is a bit like we are being guided around a different world, although it is always in the past tense – this is a person in the past talking about an event in their past, which gives this poem a rather dreamlike feel to it. It makes this a quite cozy read.
'Cozy' is often so close to 'twee' however, and this poem could be accused of being that. It is very easy to read, with a mixture of strong and weak rhymes that flows naturally. Here's one random stanza for an example:
Tears being frozen in beards is a nice way to reinforce the deep cold of this poem's world, but 'for wives to pluck' could be taken a few ways, which could take a reader out of this poem a little. Are the men crying with happiness because their wives are having fun plucking their beards? Or are these tears of sadness? The way the stanzas of this poem are constructed, it was not to fit a rhyme scheme. There are a few little details like this that make you pause a moment, but on the whole the poem flows effortlessly from one stanza to the next.
There certainly is a place for literature made just to illicit an emotional response. P.G. Wodehouse wrote just to make people laugh, there was probably never any point or argument he wanted to present like the George Orwell's of the world. As such, this book should not be criticized for being just mood and quaintly pleasant if that is all it wanted to do, but after reading the poem a few times there does seem to be some kind of vaguely religious point to it. There are small references to the bible throughout, and as the poem nears the end they become more explicit. Then as day breaks on the last day of the narrative, the 'King' appears on London bridge. This could be taken literally, as in the king of England, but it is capitalized, and the image alongside his appearance shows someone impossibly tall and ghost-like. This 'King' is probably God, or a metaphor for the rising sun that will eventually re-warm the planet and make everything go back to normal. There are layers to this poem, in short, and it does reward a few readings.
It would be wrong to think that this is about Carol Ann Duffy's own religious beliefs. I do not know what they are, and writers can talk about things they do not necessarily believe in. The poem alone is what is being focused on here, and it is written from the perspective of someone living at that time. What people will take this poem to mean is probably entirely subjective, and that openness to interpretation is what makes poetry what it is.
I think, in a sense, that is the point of this poem, that the mini ice age of 1683 was as much a break in the normal way society is organized (as Christmas day is more generally) it made the few days described in this poem extra special to those who experienced it in their own way, and why this poem is being related to us. This is not to say this is why the poem was written, that is a separate reason entirely.
This book would be great to give someone at Christmas, it will probably be read and have a 'that was lovely' sort of reaction to it after finishing. If that is all this book is aiming for, then it certainly succeeds, and it is a pretty fun. Honestly, it was difficult to stop reading it. And it is lovely. I do not think it will be become someone's favorite poem, but if you want a few minutes away from the real world and want to read something charming and Christmassy, this book will do the job just fine.
Anyway, I hope you all have a great holiday, whatever you celebrate, and have a very happy new year!
I saw a lass, her tongue stuck to a spoon.
I saw an ice-hare staring lifeless at no moon. London was snow. St. Paul's, a talent of snow
to seem more grand. The bells hung in their towers
dumb. Trees went to pieces; cracked. Men's tears
were jewels in their beards for wives to pluck.
I saw a spider's web enriched with rime.
I saw a clock too cold to tell the time;
a pickpocket's hand too blue to do the crime.