For all the charming, nostalgic, light-hearted romps about the English, their customs, their idyllic countryside and architecture; the more I read, the more aware I become that Betjeman was not fundamentally the crown's teddy bear. Delightful, yes, and bright ... entertaining with an accurate and amusing ear for rythmn; but deeply conflicted and depressive.
Not every poet, in his heyday, was quoted in country lanes and pubs, as was Betjeman. But adulation, fame, and honor were not enough for the poet as he dealt with demons from his past and present. Deeply spiritual but overwhelmed by doubt; loving but uncertain about marriage, family and sexuality; enthralled by the upper classes while uncertain about his own social standing ... Betjeman is hard to classify and it certainly won't do to think about him sentimentally as simply the romanticized voice of "olde England."
Far from making the poet smaller in our eyes, it may be these very human struggles that make him more endearing to so many.
"Guilt."
The clock is frozen in the tower,
The thickening fog with sooty smell
Has blanketed the motor power
Which turns the London streets to hell;
And footsteps with their lonely sound
Intensify the silence round.
I haven't hope. I haven't faith.
I live two lives and sometimes three.
The lives I live make life a death
For those who have to live with me.
Knowing the virtues that I lack,
I pat myself upon the back.
With breastplate of self-righteousness
And shoes of smugness on my feet,
Before the urge in me grows less
I hurry off to make retreat.
For somewhere, somewhere, burns a light
To lead me out into the night.
It glitters icy, thin and plain,
And leads me down to Waterloo-
Into a warm electric train
Which travels sorry Surrey through
And crystal-hung, the clumps of pine
Stand deadly still beside the line.
