Betjeman is in my view a minor poet but remains a definite feature in the poetic landscape of British writing in the last century. As time refines him, the number of poems which occurs to anthologists will dwindle, but that is true of all writers, including the greatest. And reading through any collection, there is no need to feel one has to enjoy more than a few poems, after all.
An aside to Tom… You say: "I suppose the assumption is as an American I am supposed to be fascinated with High British Culture - from the foibles of the monarchy to tea and crumpets and the like." I don’t imagine Clive intended to impose on you (or on any non-British member) in the way this remark implies - any more than, as someone from the UK, I imagine that I am supposed to be "fascinated" with American cultural, social and literary history. We enjoy what the breadth of our sympathies allows us to enjoy.
Anyway, here for the curious are two more samples, the first from the beginning of Betjeman’s career, the second from towards the end. The second poem, "Harvest Hymn", is a parody of a hymn well-known in the UK which begins" We plough the fields and scatter The good seed on the land". I wonder if it is sung in other English-speaking countries.
Death in Leamington
She died in the upstairs bedroom
By the light of the ev'ning star
That shone through the plate glass window
From over Leamington Spa.
Beside her the lonely crochet
Lay patiently and unstirred,
But the fingers that would have work'd it
Were dead as the spoken word.
And Nurse came in with the tea-things
Breast high 'mid the stands and chairs-
But Nurse was alone with her own little soul,
And the things were alone with theirs.
She bolted the big round window,
She let the blinds unroll,
She set a match to the mantle,
She covered the fire with coal.
And "Tea! " she said in a tiny voice
"Wake up! It's nearly five."
Oh I Chintzy, chintzy cheeriness,
Half dead and half alive!
Do you know that the stucco is peeling?
Do you know that the heart will stop?
From those yellow Italianate arches
Do you hear the plaster drop?
Nurse looked at the silent bedstead,
At the gray, decaying face,
As the calm of a Leamington ev'ning
Drifted into the place.
She moved the table of bottles
Away from the bed to the wall;
And tiptoeing gently over the stairs
Turned down the gas in the hall.
…
Harvest Hymn
We spray the fields and scatter
The poison on the ground
So that no wicked wild flowers
Upon our farm be found.
We like whatever helps us
To line our puree with pence;
The twenty-four-hour broiler-house
And neat electric fence.
All concrete sheds around us
And Jaguars in the yard,
The telly lounge and deep-freeze
Are ours from working hard.
We fire the fields for harvest,
The hedges swell the flame,
The oak trees and the cottages
From which our fathers came.
We give no compensation,
The earth is ours today,
And if we lose on arable,
The bungalows will pay.
All concrete sheds…etc.
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