John Betjeman, Poet Laureate of England from 1972 to his death in 1984, was born on this date in 1906. He was a poet born out of his time, in a way; his poetry sounds more like that of Thomas Hardy or even one of his favorite poets, William Cowper, than it does the poets of the twentieth century, T.S. Eliot and his ilk. (“A precocious writer of verse, at the age of 10 Betjeman presented the manuscript of ‘The Best Poems of John Betjeman’ to his favourite teacher at Highgate, ‘the American master’, Mr T S Eliot.”) Betjeman studied at Oxford with C.S. Lewis, and according to this article, JB (as he was called) rather blamed Lewis for Betjeman’s failure to receive a degree from that institution.

JB, in addition to writing poetry, was a journalist, an editor, a broadcaster, and a film critic. He also campaigned tirelessly for the preservation of the architectural heritage of Britain, making appearances on radio and television to promote this cause. His poetry has a great sense of place and setting, probably due to his love for architecture and for history.

Here are the first two stanzas of his poem, Verses Turned . . .:

Across the wet November night
The church is bright with candlelight
And waiting Evensong.
A single bell with plaintive strokes
Pleads louder than the stirring oaks
The leafless lanes along.

It calls the choirboys from their tea
And villagers, the two or three,
Damp down the kitchen fire,
Let out the cat, and up the lane
Go paddling through the gentle rain
Of misty Oxfordshire.

Go here to read the rest of this quiet ecclesiastical poem about the church’s endurance.

Links to more Betjeman poems:
Myfanwy
Trebetherick
Back From Australia
Inexpensive Progress
Middlesex
Felixstowe, or The Last of Her Order.
A Subaltern’s Love Song
Youth and Age on Beaulieu River
Diary of a Church Mouse

Delightful poet. Very British and somewhat “churchy.” But not too serious or full of himself. I like his poetry very much. It’s unfortunate that he and Lewis couldn’t get along; they may be laughing about their erstwhile feud in heaven now.

In her Poetry Friday round-up post, Book Aunt remembers poet Karla Kuskin, who died last week leaving a legacy of playful poetry.