I had a fondness for Sir John Betjeman back in the 70’s. His influence has since often left an imprint on my own output, dare I suggest? But now It’s intriguing, and not a little disturbing, that his spirit can be so readily invoked to live on…
A new poem prompted (by me — which is sadly all the credit I can claim!) and inspired by the style of late poet laureate whose voice exemplified something quintessentially English for me: this effort written by ‘Sir John Betjaiman’:
“The Glow of Screen-Lit Face”
Oh, bring me back the ticking clock,
The rattle of the evening train,
Before the world could think and talk
Through glass and wire and coded brain.
A time when men with fountain pens
Would scribble notes with ink and smudge,
And office clerks with well-worn lens
Would shuffle papers, grunt, and judge.
Behold! The age of gleaming steel,
Of circuits bright and voices bland,
Where engines tell us what to feel
And write the verse with ghostly hand.
The rattling press has ceased to churn,
The bookshelves now are ghostly bare,
For all that ever breathed or learned
Resides within electric air.
What use the scone, the steepled spire,
The garden path, the Sunday tea,
When knowledge feeds the thoughtless wire
And truth is just an old CD?
No parson’s bell, no sermon’s grace,
No postman’s knock, no friendly din—
Only the glow of screen-lit face
And silent minds that click within.
Oh, give me back the oaken pew,
The village green, the cricket call,
For though this mind may think it knew,
It never knew my world at all.
