[A. E. Stallings]

Dear Rosa,

The poem you are thinking of is "Mr. Strugnell" and is from Cope's "Making Cocoa for Kinglsey Amis."

Cope uses Strugnell for all sorts of parodies of all kinds of styles--he isn't a character so much as a means--, but in that particular poem, he is clearly modelled on Larkin. (It is a parody of Mr. Bleany, but there are numerous other give-aways: jazz, '63, and of course Hull.) Betjeman was a big influence on Larkin, and will always be important for that if nothing else--it is just another nod to Larkin, not a dismissal of Betjeman. It is a delightful wicked parody. She also does brilliant send-ups of Shakespeare and Wordsworth in the Strugnell sonnets, but that certainly doesn't mean she finds them inferior poets!

The poets she--or perhaps rather, the superior Mr. Strugnell?--is taking a swipe at (via the dramatic irony of the monologue from Mrs. M.) are not the likes of Betjeman, but Patience Strong and Pam Ayres, who, I take it, are "Deep Thoughts" Hallmark type "poets."

I hope the Betjeman fans don't mind if I post the poem here (if only to clear Cope's name of Betjeman bashing... )

Mr. Strugnell

'This was Mr. Strugnell's room,' she'll say,
And look down at the lumpy, single bed.
'He stayed here up until he went away
And kept his bicycle out in that shed.

'He had a job at Norwood library--
He was a quiet sort who liked to read--
Dick Francis mostly, and some poetry--
He liked John Betjeman very much indeed

'But not Pam Ayres or even Patience Strong--
He'd change the subject if I mentioned them,
Or say "It's time for me to run along--
Your taste's too highbrow for me, Mrs. M."

'And up he'd go and listen to that jazz.
I don't mind telling you it was a bore--
Few things in this house have been tiresome as
The sound of his foot tapping on the floor.

'He didn't seem the sort for being free
With girls or going out and having fun.
He had a funny turn in 'sixty-three
And ran round shouting "Yippee! It's begun."

'I don't know what he meant but after that
He had a different look, much more relaxed.
Some nights he'd come in late, too tired to chat,
As if he had been somewhat overtaxed.

'And now he's gone. He said he found Tulse Hill
Too stimulating--wanted somewhere dull.
At last he's found a place that fits the bill--
Enjoying perfect boredom up in Hull.'
'

Thanks for taking time out to clear up my confusion. Much appreciated! The "Jason Strugnell" character seemed like a supercilious ass (poking fun at his poor unsophisticated landlady), so I just assumed Cope would make his favorite poet a bad or pretentious one. It all makes a little more sense now.




[This message has been edited by RosaRugosa (edited February 14, 2003).]

[Clive]

Just as an aside - Pam Ayres was a writer of comic doggerel who was enormously popular in Britain in the late 70s, mainly due to her reading of the poems in a broad Oxfordshire accent.

Patience Strong writes 'inspirational' verses which, despite being rhymed and metred, are usually written out as prose. Very popular on calendars and tea-towels the length and breadth of Britain.

As a further aside to this aside, when he was compiling the Oxford Book of 20th Century Verse, Larkin seriously considered including something by Patience Strong. Can't remember what he said about it - something about her poetry being 'honest' - but I think it was more mischief than anything else.

NYC Tom (isn't it?). You were right to pick me up on my hasty crit which might seem to imply an overall condemnation of camp art. First, I'd better emphasise that I intended the word to convey 'theatrical, affected, exaggerated'. Any reference to gay culture would IMO have been inappropriate when discussing JB's sexual orientation. 'Infantile' is the first word that springs to mind, but I don't really want to chase that hare.
To avoid misunderstanding I should probably have used the word 'whimsy.' Whimsy can to my mind be engaging if well controlled or tedious(if stale and self-indulgent). It seems to me that the Myfanwy poems and others in which JB writes self-deprecatingly and nostalgically of unrequited love would have benefited from pruning. Jokes of this sort were common from Victorian times.
IN THE PUBLIC GARDENS is, I suggest, a superior example of JB's whimsicality.

In the Public Gardens,
To the airs of Strauss,
Eingang we're in love again
When ausgang we were aus.

The waltz was played, the songs were sung,
The night resolved our fears;
From bunchy boughs the lime trees hung
Their gold electroliers.

Among the loud Americans
Zwei Englanderwere we,
You so white and frail and pale
And me so deeply me;

I bought for you a dark-red rose,
I saw your grey-green eyes,
As high above the floodlights,
The true moon sailed the skies.

In the Public Gardens,
Ended things begin;
Ausgangwe were out of love
Und eingang we are in.

OK, OK. The 'white' ... 'pale' combo in st 3 is bad. I suspect the 'white' may refer to a dress.

Of Betjeman's religious poems, I most admire ST SAVIOUR'S, ABERDEEN PARK ...
Too long to quote in full here, alas. The use of period detail seems well judged to set the scene and create an impression of lost lifestyles - I particularly like
'Solid Italianate houses for the solid commercial mind.' And the inclusiveness of JB's brand of Christianity is moving - even to this secular humanist. Margaret.

[This message has been edited by Campoem (edited March 11, 2003).]

[edeverett]

I'm sorry to have come to this so late, especially as it was me who recently took time to criticise J.B., having fallen in to what could, I discover above, be called 'the Larkin Trap'. Yes I do think Betjeman is a divisive figure, although I agree with Shekhar about his technical skill.

He's the kind of figure that tells us so much about British culture in the middle part of the 20th century, and will be useful to historians. I was interested to hear Oliver's information about JB's diplomatic role- I do agree about the Cocktail parties.

It seems to me that Betjeman was essentially an ameliorating figure, part of the 'feel-good factor' that would have held classes and society together. Amongst the upper classes he was a figure of fun and affection.
I don't know how 'high' his background was, but I wonder whether Larkin's feelings towards him were governed by a cool analysis of poetry or by the sense that the society Larkin wanted to protect revered Betjeman as a reassuring old buffer/ High Church type? Larkin was the son of a Coventry Councillor, and would have been no stranger to the Cocktail Party himself, nor to the mechanics of social climbing.

My basic thesis is that the figure Betjeman became anaesthetised his poetry, rendering its technical skill somewhat redundant. This was a great pity, making him a dealer in dodgy stereotypes, a shuffler of nostalgic images. I agree again with Shekhar about 'In Westminster Abbey'. This is also one of my favourites, but it's also a noticeably patriotic poem, satirising on safe ground.
In summation of my view, Betjeman shows us how to waste a gift beautifully, to the detriment of the general poetic environment.

[This message has been edited by edeverett (edited March 05, 2003).]

[Jennifer Reeser]

Thomas --

You mentioned Teasdale. I wonder if you might consider starting another thread, and expounding on what you've mentioned about her work here in passing. I've only recently discovered her, and I've been critically comparing her work to that of Millay and Wylie. I'd like to hear further thoughts on it, if you don't mind.

Jennifer

[peter richards]

I just think Betjeman is absolutely wonderful. If you've watched The Office (UK version, I suspect) you may note that the "action" takes place in Slough and one of the series ends with Ricky Gervaise's rendition of this:

Slough

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

[Janet Kenny]

Peter,
One of my favourites!

What a delightful thread. Thankyou Clive and Clive and Alicia.
Janet

[oliver murray]

Yes, Devonshire Street is a beautiful and poignant piece and I doubt if any other British poet could have bettered it. Betjeman was less successful writing about the working classes, but this is understandable. Here is an interesting oddity, a poem about the death of a working-class woman, from a poem called “Variations on a theme By TW.Rolleston.” Larkin has complained that this piece is “unaccountably” missing from the Collected Betjeman and quotes this extract , which is wonderfully poignant.


“But her place is empty in the queue at the International,
The greengrocer's queue lacks one,
So does the crowd at Mac Fisheries. There's no one to go to Freeman's
To ask if the shoes are done.”

Here is the full poem.


Under the ground, on a Saturday afternoon in winter
Lies a mother of five,
And frost has bitten the purple November rose flowers
Which budded when she was alive.
They have switched on the street lamps here by the cemetery railing;
In the dying afternoon
Men from football, and women from Timothy White's and McIlroy's
Will be coming teawards soon.
But her place is empty in the queue at the International,
The greengrocer's queue lacks one,
So does the crowd at Mac Fisheries. There's no one to go to Freeman's
To ask if the shoes are done.
Will she, who was so particular, be glad to know that after
The tears, the prayers and the priest,
Her clothing coupons and ration book were handed in at the Food Office
For the files marked 'deceased' ?


If only it had ended at “To ask if the shoes are done” but he goes on for another four lines and, in my opinion, bungles it, although the line about the clothing coupons and ration book are good. Maybe my view is coloured by having known those four lines first. The earlier lines are not of his best either and I have no idea what the meter is. It seems like accentual pentameter and trimeter alternating, but how many beats are in “Men from football and women from Timothy White’s and McIlroys” Obviously it is set as a wartime or early postwar poem, with the mention of clothing coupons and ration book.

[peter richards]

Especially interesting point when you ask about the meter, or the form, as I suspect you also meant. Not that I can put a name to it, but it seems typical to me of comic 'working class' (whatever that is in this day and age) doggerel. Pam Ayers may well have loved it, bless her heart. I saw someone at Cambridge folk festival (197*?) reciting something which, from memory, went a bit like this:

Times were very hard in the French Revolution
They didn't do things by halves
Woman sat watching their men go to the guillotine
And mistakenly knitted them scarves

...

etc.

And there's always The Lion and Albert .

Not JB's forte, as you say, because it's not really his crowd, but he might have been trying a cloth cap on his graces with 'Variations on a Theme...'

For a bit more orientation for non Brits - if I'm not mistaken the Joan Hunter-Dunn was women's singles champion at Wimbledon once, when they didn't scream and argue with umpires.

I notice that Pam Ayers parody of Wendy Copes also trip over a mass of no-meter-in-particular-sort-of-syllables-that-sound-like-they-were-exchanged-in-a-fish-and-chip-queue, by way of getting to the end-rhyme.

Maybe not the working class, but boy did he get the nouveau riche:

Executive

I am a young executive. No cuffs than mine are cleaner;
I have a Slimline brief-case and I use the firm's Cortina.
In every roadside hostelry from here to Burgess Hill
The maîtres d'hôtel all know me well, and let me sign the bill.

You ask me what it is I do. Well, actually, you know,
I'm partly a liaison man, and partly P.R.O.
Essentially, I integrate the current export drive
And basically I'm viable from ten o'clock till five.

For vital off-the-record work - that's talking transport-wise -
I've a scarlet Aston-Martin - and does she go? She flies!
Pedestrians and dogs and cats, we mark them down for slaughter.
I also own a speedboat which has never touched the water.

She's built of fibre-glass, of course. I call her 'Mandy Jane'
After a bird I used to know - No soda, please, just plain -
And how did I acquire her? Well, to tell you about that
And to put you in the picture, I must wear my other hat.

I do some mild developing. The sort of place I need
Is a quiet country market town that's rather run to seed
A luncheon and a drink or two, a little savoir faire -
I fix the Planning Officer, the Town Clerk and the Mayor.

And if some Preservationist attempts to interfere
A 'dangerous structure' notice from the Borough Engineer
Will settle any buildings that are standing in our way -
The modern style, sir, with respect, has really come to stay.