John Betjeman Quotes
John Betjeman delivers grand, witty verses on love, life and nature that paint vivid, slightly mischievous pictures for the mind.
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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!
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He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer As he gazed at the London skies Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains Or was it his bees-winged eyes?
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Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans. Spare their women for Thy Sake, And if that is not too easy, We will pardon Thy Mistake. But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be, Don't let anyone bomb me.
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He would have liked to say goodbye, Shake hands with many friends. In Highgate now his finger-bones Stick through his finger-ends. 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.
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Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun, What strenuous singles we played after tea, We in the tournament - you against me!
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We sat in the car park till twenty to one And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
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Stony seaboard, far and foreign, Stony hills poured over space, Stony outcrop of the Burren, Stones in every fertile place
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No hope. And the X-ray photographs under his arm Confirm the message. His wife stands timidly by. The opposite brick-built house looks lofty and calm, Its chimneys steady against the mackerel sky.
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And behind their frail partitions Business women lie and soak, Seeing through the draughty skylight Flying clouds and railway smoke. Rest you there, poor unbelov'd ones, Lap your loneliness in heat, All too soon the tiny breakfast, Trolley-bus and windy street!
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In the licorice fields at Pontefract My love and I did meet And many a burdened licorice bush Was blooming round our feet; Red hair she had and golden skin, Her sulky lips were shaped for sin, Her sturdy legs were flannel-slack'd The strongest legs in Pontefract.
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It's strange that those we miss the most Are those we take for granted.
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I am a young executive. No cuffs than mine are cleaner; I have a Slimline brief-case and I use the firm's Cortina.
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Ghastly Good Taste, or a Depressing Story of the Rise and Fall of English Architecture.
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Yes, I haven't had enough sex.
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Hymns are the poetry of the people.
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I ought to warn you that my verse is of no interest to people who can think.
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What the Londoner sees in his mind’s eye is that cluster of towers and pinnacles seen from Pentonville Hill and outlined against a foggy sunset, and the great arc of Barlow’s train shed gaping to devour incoming engines, and the sudden burst of exuberant Gothic of the hotel seen from gloomy Judd Street…
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People's backyards are much more interesting than their front gardens, and houses that back on to railways are public benefactors.
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Oh! full Surrey twilight! importunate band! Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!
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A whispering and watery Norfolk sound Telling of all the moonlit reeds around.
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Oh Wasn't it naughty of Smudges? Oh, Mummy, I'm sick with disgust. She threww me in front of the judges, And my silly old collar-bone's bust.
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I have a Vision of the Future, chum. The workers flats in fields of soya beans tower up like silver pencils, score on score.
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Lovers of Norfolk churches can never agree which is the best and I think one is either a Salle or a Cawston man.
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And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date.
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Approval of what is approved of Is as false as a well-kept vow.
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I am still reeling with delight at the soaring majesty of Norfolk.
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There are two thing you need for a jolly good hymn.The first is a set of words that expresses the mood or sentiment of the worshipper.The second-and perhaps even more important- is a good tune..with a simple popular melody.
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Lord, reserve for me a crown, And do not let my shares go down.
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Silver and ermine and red faces full of port wine.
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And I think it was the outline of that church tower at Belaugh against the sky which gave me a passion for churches so that every church I've past since I've wanted to stop and look in.
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Now if the harvest is over, And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter, As I lose hold.
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Too many people in the modern world view poetry as a luxury, not a necessity like petrol. But to me it's the oil of life.
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Hymn tunes are the nearest we've got to English folk music..
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I don't think I am any good. If I thought I was any good, I wouldn't be.
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On out deathbeds we're not going to regret all the work we didn't do. We're going to regret all the sex we didn't have!
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Topography is one of my chief themes in my poetry, about the country, the suburbs and the seaside. Then there comes love... and increasingly; the fear of death.
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History must not be written with bias, and both sides must be given, even if there is only one side.
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Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows.
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Norfolk would not be Norfolk without a church tower on the horizon or round a corner up a lane. We cannot spare a single Norfolk church. When a church has been pulled down the country seems empty or is like a necklace with a jewel missing.
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Ludlow…is probably the loveliest town in England with its hill of Georgian houses ascending from the river Teme to the great tower of the cross-shaped church, rising behind a classic market building.
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Topography is one of my chief themes in my poetry..about the country, the suburbs and the seaside... then there come's love... and increasingly; the fear of death.
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And London shops on Christmas Eve Are strung with silver bells and flowers As hurrying clerks the City leave To pigeon-haunted classic towers, And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky
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Imprisoned in a cage of sound, even the trivial seems profound