Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words - Edgar Allan Poe 1809-49

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John Betjeman

DEATH IN LEAMINGTON

John Betjeman 1906-84

She died in the upstairs bedroom

By the light of the ev'ning star

That shone through the plate glass window

From over Leamington Spa

Beside her the lonely crochet

Lay patiently and unstirred,

But the fingers that would have work'd it

Were dead as the spoken word.

And Nurse came in with the tea-things

Breast high 'mid the stands and chairs -

But Nurse was alone with her own little soul,

And the things were alone with theirs.

She bolted the big round window,

She let the blinds unroll,

She set a match to the mantle,

She covered the fire with coal.

And "Tea!" she said in a tiny voice

"Wake up! It's nearly five"

Oh! Chintzy, chintzy cheeriness,

Half dead and half alive.

Do you know that the stucco is peeling?

Do you know that the heart will stop?

From those yellow Italianate arches

Do you hear the plaster drop?

Nurse looked at the silent bedstead,

At the grey, decaying face,

As the calm of a Leamington ev'ning

Drifted into the place.

She moved the table of bottles

Away from the bed to the wall;

And tiptoeing gently over the stairs

Turned down the gas in the hall.

Sir John Betjeman CBE was a well-loved British poet, writer and broadcaster. He was Poet Laureate of the UK from 1972 until his death. A founding member of the Victorian Society, he was a passionate defender of Victorian architecture.

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REVERIE
Sophia Scott

The Campsie Fells lay dreaming in the soft sweet summer light,
Little breezes played and whispered round her knees,
She dreamed of days we knew not when the waters lapped her feet
And the glaciers slithered steeply from her sides -
Days when mammoths roamed the valley through the sand dunes weird and high,
And our coal was mosses, ferns and tropic trees.

The long low line of hills was swept by western winds,
And the bracken’s green was long since turned to brown,
Her dreams were sore and troubled, for she heard the tramp of feet
As the Romans marched to Cadder o’er the down;
Till they pitched their tents and sheltered from the winter’s wildest wrath,
And beneath her flanks they built for them a town.

All these days are long since over, long ago and far away,
Changeless still the Campsies lie in summer sheen;
We discover Roman forts and we dig up mammoth bones
In our age of petrol, aeroplanes and steam;
And we build our little houses and we live our little lives,
But the great hills hug their secrets still - and dream.

Mrs Scott lived in Kirkintilloch which lies to the south of the Fells. Nothing is known of her, but it's believed that she belonged to the local Baptist Church and that her poems usually had religious themes.

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Extract from SONG OF SONGS
Attributed to King Solomon of Israel (c.976-c.931 BC ?)

My beloved spake, and said unto me,
Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come,
and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

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William Barnes

FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE
William Barnes 1801-86

When I wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride,
  A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like,
  "If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride
  In theäse wheel-barrow here." Zoo I wer blind-like
  To what he had a-workèn in his mind-like,
  An' mounted vor a passenger inside;
  An' comèn to a puddle, perty wide,
  He tipp'd me in, a-grinnèn back behind-like.
  Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like,
  An' sheäke my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by,
  An' tell me he would do me this or that,
  I can't help thinkèn o' the big bwoy's trick-like.
  An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat
  An' thank en, I do veel a little shy.

Barnes was an Anglican priest, philologist, writer and poet. Some of his poems like the one here were written in the Dorset dialect. Nowadays he is best remembered for the song "Linden Lea."

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Poetry is what happens when nothing else can. - Charles Bukowski 1920-94

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