John Betjeman was a curiously prosaic poet. He does not deal in the abstractions of the Romantics, or express himself in the opaque and elusive manner of the Modernists. Everything is on the surface.
Betjeman deals with the concrete and the mundane. Admittedly it is the mundane life of the well-to-do man, the man who plays golf, visits teashops, and went to university (albeit without finishing). This helps to date Betjeman, as many of the day-to-day aspects of ordinary life in Betjeman’s time have passed on, leaving us puzzled about some of his references.
Here is no nature poet, even if Betjeman does describe his environment. More often, Betjeman describes life in all its insignificant detail. He was dismissed as a “songster of tennis lawns and cathedral cloisters” when originally considered for the position of Poet Laureate (though he later became one of the best-loved poets to hold this position).
It is hardly surprising that Philip Larkin, another observer of the insignificant details of life, should like Betjeman. Yet Betjeman was the opposite of Larkin. Larkin sees the dullness of daily life as comically dreary. Betjeman simply loves the little details about his world. His use of bathos is comically good-natured.
This is Betjeman's strength and weakness. He is never likely to be admired for the depth of his observations because everything is clear for us to see. The critic has less work to do in understanding Betjeman’s poetry. Nonetheless, there is something admirable about Betjeman’s eye for detail, his fascination with that which is in front of us every day, but which only Betjeman seems to notice.
Love is featured in these works, but Betjeman sees in a more comical manner. Think of the delightfully tongue-in-cheek ‘A Subalterns Love Song’. The love for Joan Hunter Dunn is there, but his constant repetition of her name emphasises its amusing cadences:
Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun
Never mind that Betjeman was married to someone else at the time when he was in love with Miss J Hunter Dunn. The poem is still one of his most endearing. Betjeman genuinely loved women, though his camp known suggests possible bisexuality.
There is no religious fervour here. Betjeman was an Anglican, but there is none of the intensity of a John Donne work. Betjeman was a doubter who struggled with his faith. Some of poems assert his religion strongly; some weakly. Even in ‘Christmas’, he makes pious statements in a curiously lukewarm and flippant manner. Think of the poem’s last line:
No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.
Bitterness rarely creeps into Betjeman, but it is often around death. He laments those who have passed before him, and this seems to cause him more religious doubt than anything else. This is most notable in ‘On the Portrait of a Deaf Man’. Describing the kind man that he misses, Betjeman offers the following gruesomely poignant verses:
He took me on long silent walks
In country lanes when young.
He knew the names of ev'ry bird
But not the song it sung.
And when he could not hear me speak
He smiled and looked so wise
That now I do not like to think
Of maggots in his eyes.
The poem end with Betjeman at his most doubting:
You, God, who treat him thus and thus,
Say "Save his soul and pray."
You ask me to believe You and
I only see decay.
Of course the most famous of Betjeman’s poems is the one that is most biting of all. This is of course ‘Slough’, the drably industrialised town which the old-fashioned Betjeman (who liked architectural heritage) despised. He famously said: “Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough”.
Later Betjeman would regret his savage depiction of the town, one that naturally upset its residents. However, great poems are not penned by men who write with restraint. If Betjeman had said, ‘I don’t like the town myself, but it has its good points, and I’d happily bomb the buildings out of existence if I wasn’t concerned about killing people’, then we would find the poem’s poise and balance unremarkable, and nobody would remember it. It is the snappy and catchy cruelty of ‘Slough’ that makes it such fun to read.
I must admit I did not read the prose sections of this selection, as I only wanted to read Betjeman’s poetry. Betjeman is not in the top drawer of poets, but had a nice sense of rhythm, an observant eye, a mischievous sense of fun and the ability to occasionally rise to moments of touching lyricism.