  Poetry
This week: John Betjeman Edited by: stormyrene
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Sun and Fun
by John Betjeman
I walked into the night-club in the morning;
There was kummel on the handle of the door.
The ashtrays were unemptied.
The cleaning unattempted,
And a squashed tomato sandwich on the floor.
I pulled aside the thick magenta curtains
-So Regency, so Regency, my dear –
And a host of little spiders
Ran a race across the ciders
To a box of baby ‘pollies by the beer.
Oh sun upon the summer-going by-pass
Where ev’rything is speeding to the sea,
And wonder beyond wonder
That here where lorries thunder
The sun should ever percolate to me.
When Boris used to call in his Sedanca,
When Teddy took me down to his estate
When my nose excited passion,
When my clothes were in the fashion,
When my beaux were never cross if I was late,
There was sun enough for lazing upon beaches,
There was fun enough for far into the night.
But I’m dying now and done for,
What on earth was all the fun for?
For I’m old and ill and terrified and tight.
The Last Laugh
by John Betjeman
I made hay while the sun shone.
My work sold.
Now, if the harvest is over
And the world cold,
Give me the bonus of laughter
As I lose hold.
John Betjeman was born on August 28, 1906 in London England. His father Ernest Betjemann, was cabinet maker. His mother Mabel worked with his father in the shop they owned. John was an only child. By eleven John was off to boarding school. In 1925 he started college at Magdalen College, Oxford. John did not get his degree. After leaving Magdalen, he became a teacher at Thorpe House School.
In 1930, John became assistant editor of The Architectural Review. That following year he published his first book of poetry Mount Zion. On July 29, 1933 John married Penelope Chetwode. His second book Ghastly Good Taste was published in 1934. John son Paul, was born in 1937, that same year his book Continual Dew was published. In 1941, John moved to Dublin and took a job as the Press Officer to the British Representative. His daughter Paula, (later known as Candida Lycett Green) was born in 1942.
In 1943 the family moved back to England where John worked in the Ministry of Information. In the years that followed John and Penelope grew apart and their marriage eventually ended. In 1951 John met Lady Elizabeth Cavendish. A Few Late Chrysanthemums was published in 1952. Poems in the Porch was published in 1954, then came John Betjeman’s Collected Poems in 1958. During these years John worked at writing guidebooks and on architecture. He also started broadcasting in the late 1960’s. A Ring of Bells was published in 1962. In 1966 High and low was published. In 1969, John Betjeman was knighted. His last book of new poems, A Nip in The Air, was published in 1974.
In 1975 John began to suffer from Parkinson's Disease. Over the next few years he suffered several strokes that left him with limited mobility. John Betjeman died May 19th 1984, at his home in Trebetherick. He was buried just inside the entrance of St. Enodoc’s churchyard.
Winter Seascape
by John Betjeman
The sea runs back against itself
With scarcely time for breaking wave
To cannonade a slatey shelf
And thunder under in a cave.
Before the next can fully burst
The headwind, blowing harder still,
Smooths it to what it was at first -
A slowly rolling water-hill.
Against the breeze the breakers haste,
Against the tide their ridges run
And all the sea's a dappled waste
Criss-crossing underneath the sun.
Far down the beach the ripples drag
Blown backward, rearing from the shore,
And wailing gull and shrieking shag
Alone can pierce the ocean roar.
Unheard, a mongrel hound gives tongue,
Unheard are shouts of little boys;
What chance has any inland lung
Against this multi-water noise?
Here where the cliffs alone prevail
I stand exultant, neutral, free,
And from the cushion of the gale
Behold a huge consoling sea.
Thank you all!
stormyrene
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Forsaken are the fears of night
as the first hint of an amber glow
begins to illuminate the stage of life.
As dawn breaks, the party begins,
birds sing with reckless abandon,
the cacophony of sound, the
music of the morning, sweeter than
the strumming of Spanish guitars,
enticing and enchanting, tempting,
the minds and hearts of all who hear it
to embrace the gift of another day.
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: March 30, 2016 Issue [#7562]
Good luck to all 
