John Betjeman: A Centenary Tribute
He was the People’s Laureate, of course, Observing things that others disregard: Post-Toasties, Craven A and HP sauce — Unworthy subjects for a royal bard?
He wrote of tea-shops and the electric train; Of things familiar to the common man, Things which his critics sneeringly disdain, (Also maybe because he made his metres scan And took care to make his verses rhyme).
He wrote of a spinster’s life in Tunbridge Wells, And inexpensive scent at Christmas time; Of Ruislip Gardens, Pinner and the bells Of Mellstock in Dorset (that’s where Hardy lies); Of Fuller’s cake and picnics by the sea, Past pleasures which eluded other eyes; Of Mrs Fairclough as she sipped her tea, Watching Clemency, the general’s daughter ‘Schoolboy-sure’ in slacks and lithe of limb, Pulling with even strokes on Beaulieu water.
Her figure (so appealing) haunted him: Clemency, Joan and Pam, Myfanwy too, And Laurelie Williams on her balcony.
Many were the golden girls he knew And worshipped from afar quite hopelessly.
He wrote of other loves; of Cornish surf And thrift and gorse and squelch of bladder-wrack, And mashie-niblicks on the seaside turf And things we’ve lost that never will come back.
Who else has sung of Bude and Anglesey, Prestatyn, Rhyl, Minehead and Felixstowe, The level wastes of mud at Leigh-on-Sea, Where children with their nannies used to go?
He loved the Church of England, Evensong, Ancient and Modern in the old box pews.
But is it true?, he asked, and all along Death was the constant shadow of his muse.
He was assailed by doubt, but not by debt.
He joked a lot and must have thought it funny: He never was a businessman, and yet His writing made an awful lot of money.
Collected Poems sold two million. Wow!
What price those sneering lofty critics now?
Roger Coombs
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