Sir John Betjeman: Всі вірші поета

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Slough

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!

Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens

Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,

Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans

Tinned minds, tinned breath.

by Sir John Betjeman

How To Get On In Society

Phone for the fish knives, Norman

As cook is a little unnerved;

You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes

And I must have things daintily served.

Are the requisites all in the toilet?

The frills round the cutlets can wait

Till the girl has replenished the cruets

And switched on the logs in the grate.

by Sir John Betjeman

Loneliness

The last year's leaves are on the beech:

The twigs are black; the cold is dry;

To deeps beyond the deepest reach

The Easter bells enlarge the sky.

O ordered metal clatter-clang!

Is yours the song the angels sang?

You fill my heart with joy and grief -

Belief! Belief! And unbelief…

by Sir John Betjeman

Westgate-On-Sea

Hark, I hear the bells of Westgate,

I will tell you what they sigh,

Where those minarets and steeples

Prick the open Thanet sky.

Happy bells of eighteen-ninety,

Bursting from your freestone tower!

Recalling laurel, shrubs and privet,

Red geraniums in flower.

by Sir John Betjeman

Ireland With Emily

Bells are booming down the bohreens,

White the mist along the grass,

Now the Julias, Maeves and Maureens

Move between the fields to Mass.

Twisted trees of small green apple

Guard the decent whitewashed chapel,

Gilded gates and doorway grained,

Pointed windows richly stained

by Sir John Betjeman

In A Bath Teashop

"Let us not speak, for the love we bear one another—

Let us hold hands and look."

She such a very ordinary little woman;

He such a thumping crook;

But both, for a moment, little lower than the angels

In the teashop's ingle-nook.

by Sir John Betjeman

An Edwardian Sunday, Broomhill, Sheffield

High dormers are rising

So sharp and surprising,

And ponticum edges

The driveways of gravel;

Stone houses from ledges

Look down on ravines.

The vision can travel

From gable to gable,

by Sir John Betjeman

The Olympic Girl

The sort of girl I like to see

Smiles down from her great height at me.

She stands in strong, athletic pose

And wrinkles her retroussé nose.

Is it distaste that makes her frown,

So furious and freckled, down

On an unhealthy worm like me?

Or am I what she likes to see?

by Sir John Betjeman

A Shropshire Lad

The gas was on in the Institute,

The flare was up in the gym,

A man was running a mineral line,

A lass was singing a hymn,

When Captain Webb the Dawley man,

Captain Webb from Dawley,

Came swimming along the old canal

That carried the bricks to Lawley.

by Sir John Betjeman

Middlesex

Gaily into Ruislip Gardens

Runs the red electric train,

With a thousand Ta's and Pardon's

Daintily alights Elaine;

Hurries down the concrete station

With a frown of concentration,

Out into the outskirt's edges

Where a few surviving hedges

by Sir John Betjeman

Christmas

The bells of waiting Advent ring,

The Tortoise stove is lit again

And lamp-oil light across the night

Has caught the streaks of winter rain

In many a stained-glass window sheen

From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge

And round the Manor House the yew

by Sir John Betjeman

Business Girls

From the geyser ventilators

Autumn winds are blowing down

On a thousand business women

Having baths in Camden Town

Waste pipes chuckle into runnels,

Steam's escaping here and there,

Morning trains through Camden cutting

Shake the Crescent and the Square.

by Sir John Betjeman