Monday 28th August was a day for enjoying all things traditional and everything English- like seaside siestas, glorious gardens and fun-filled fairs- not to mention beer and barbecues, cars and queues. It was the last Bank Holiday of the Summer- but also the centenary of the birth one of Britain's most popular poets laureate, Sir John Betjeman.
If you're a regular reader of these blogs or know me well, you'll already be familiar with my love of word play and particularly alliteration. The appeal of successive words containing the same initial letters is one of the many fun things you can do when trying to combine twenty-six letters to make satisfying sentences- there, I did it again!
I've always enjoyed writing about the people and places I've visited, and the emotions and experiences I've had along the way. I suppose when all's said and done that's what all writing's about, whether fiction or fact. It's how we share our humanity, how we can attempt to understand our deeper feelings, trials and tribulations. Somewhere along the way, good writing also has the power to entertain as well as inform.
I love putting words together to form these blogs when - increasingly of late- other writing commitments don't get in the way, but I've never seen myself as much of a poet. With the odd exception, I'm very much a prose-smith. But I can nevertheless appreciate poetry's power to elevate the commonplace to the comment place, where literary criticism and appreciation of the use of language come to the fore.
Some sourpuss scoffers thought during his lifetime that John Betjeman couldn't be judged a proper poet at all, because he so loved rhyming couplets. But so what? The great joy of rhyme is that is memorable, and Betjeman had a gift for condensing the profound into the fuss-free device of a rhyme which everyone could appreciate. That doesn't mean his writing lost any of its power for all that: Christmas, which I paid homage to in this blog last Advent with my own poem, is a work of beauty which portrays the meaning of Christ's birth in a way none of the sugary lines of a Christmas card ever can.
John Betjeman's great contribution to English society was that he was a flawed genius- like so many of the rest of us, no doubt. Twenty-two years after his cruel death from the ravages of Parkinson's Disease, he's been remembered this month in many a television, radio and newspaper homage. At the same time, A N Wilson, his latest biographer, has stirred up controversy over claims about the authenticity of a letter about the poet's mistress.
The words of others can never do full justice to the legacy and the life of any individual. They are but a feeble attempt to explain the mysterious, complex, wonderful creation which is a human being. John Betjeman was a walking contradiction at times; considered quintessentially English in so many of his writings and causes, he was actually of immigrant stock. Always a man of faith, and yet often ill at ease with his Anglicanism. A master of words and yet at times tortured by his thoughts- particularly of death.
I love John Betjeman's poetry. I love his depiction of an England now long gone, of the suburbia I inhabit and the customs I cherish. He wrote some lovely words, worthy of celebration at this centenary time. But a man's a man for all that- as another great British poet,Robert Burns, famously declared with his homage to humility two centuries before Betjeman. Only in faith and trust, and in the love of Jesus do we really find what life's all about. Plenty of poetic words in the bible, as well as the journalistic narrative of my namesake Mark confirm that for me, as ultimately it did for Betjeman.
By blood after bird
God kept his Word
From the Ark, the dove sent
That all should repent
Becoming flesh in Palestine
Jesus came for all mankind
That love should prosper, in souls of the earth
And everyone know the joy of new birth.
Tuesday, 29 August 2006
Tuesday, 1 August 2006
Phew, All Britannia
If the Romans hadn't given us enough names already for the months of the year, we'd surely be inventing new ones by now. Two of the Caesars claimed respectively July and August, otherwise Scorchio and Vacancio might well make more appropriate names for the distinguishing marks of this time of year.
July was the hottest on record in the UK, though not quite exceeding the record high of 10th August 2003 when the Fahrenheit century (around 37 degrees Centigrade) was breached for the first time ever in the British Isles at my late mother's birthplace, Faversham in Kent. Now Midsummer has given way to High Summer as we've entered the eighth month of the year, yet already I find moments of melancholy as sunset now gets back to before 9 p.m and the shops are full of Back to School gear hardly a week after the little loves have finished the school year.
August can be a very strange month; even politicians shut their traps for a few weeks -at least in parliament during the recess. The media go all silly, but normally nobody cares as most of Britain breathes a collective sigh of relief to enjoy a few weeks of rest and relaxation and a chance to chill out- literally.
With perfect timing the two-week heatwave came to an end last weekend. Although as I write, it's still a somewhat sticky summer afternoon, the temperatures are at least below the thirty degrees celsius mark again. We Britons are just not made for extremes: we are used to a temperate climate and most of the time that reflects our expressions of our national values too. The rare, but welcome, exceptions are seen in the culture fests of this time of the year here, when Edinburgh brings its Caledonian charm to the largest international arts festival in the world, while Wales celebrates all things Cambrian with the Royal National Eisteddfod, taking place this week around the principality's second city of Swansea.
Here in England, London's Royal Albert Hall plays host to some of the most internationally-renowned orchestras and soloists as the BBC Proms season brings a wealth of music to the nation prior to the Britophile feast which is the Last Night, a tradition much imitated as an evening diversion in August across the land. I love all these events, and wish I could take part in every one in some way.
There's something about summer which is a contradiction: on the one hand, it begs you to slow the pace down to spare the body the fierce heat we are now becoming accustomed to, and yet it's a time where you long to make the most of the great outdoors visiting new places or becoming re-acquainted with ones last seen many years ago. Earlier this week, I was delighted to spend a mini break on the Sussex coast at my "other" home. We tripped through the centuries, taking in Hastings, home of a castle even in Roman times -long before William I launched the last succesful conquest of England- and the next day went to Bodiam, where everybody's idea of a fairy tale castle took me back to my first acquaintance with this heavenly location as a ten-year old.
Children and adults alike love the chance at such places to wind back the film of the imagination to an age before CGI did the imagining for us. It's enlightening and interesting to think back to the times of bold knights, wise kings and fair maidens. But the mind is tricked if it thinks that those times were really so different from the 21st century. Amidst all the chivalry, there was also great brutality, cruel and sudden death, merciless slaughter and pointless destruction of property and persons. Many children did not even live to adulthood.
Sound familiar? Sadly, it's the tale played out this summer not in imagination but in reality on the front pages and the TV screens of the world as the ever-volatile situation in the Middle East approaches a new boiling point. It might not have the outward appearance of the battles and conquests of Roman, Saxon and Medieval Europe, but the net effects are every bit as horrendous for the individual lives war always affects.
Israel is at war once again, not with a sovereign state but with a faction, Hizbullah or the "party of God", seemingly holed up in Beirut, Lebanon. Hence the land of majestic cedar trees is once again tortured by the indiscriminate explosive power of airborne weapons, and the world despairs as both sides make claims about the evil excesses of the other while innocent children and civilians are as ever the powerless victims. Just as the Lebanese capital was once again becoming an attractive holiday destination, the indelible scars of war mar more than facades. They destroy precious human bodies.
Can there ever be an end to all this wretched warfare? Is there a solution to the senseless killing which brings nothing but more tears and bitterness? Politicians will try, and Britain's PM Tony Blair is, somewhat ironically, achieving a measure of redemption amidst the enduring hatred of his part in the troubles of another part of this region, Iran. Britain had a long-standing reputation as an honest broker and peacemaker in the world's warmongering, but such policy now seems to belong to an age long gone.
Nobody can breathe any true sighs of relief while this horror remains. It's about far more than oil and land, it's about man's basic nature. Sadly, we can breathe no sighs of relief or take a holiday from "sin". All three of the religions which have fought over this part of the globe for centuries as "People of the Book", the book being the Hebrew Bible, recognise that "Sin" became an innate part of the human condition long ago. Middle East war is only the most extreme and disturbing part of that within all of us. Normally rapidly cooled down from nothing worse than a hot temper, we're nevertheless all capable of the cold-blooded murder which is the mark of extremism given the right - or wrong- spark. Like a match to parched grass, war brings uncontrollable destruction everywhere in its wake which no firefighter can control for long, it seems.
Yet still there is hope. The Hebrew Bible is an "old" testament, and so often it seems punctuated by violence and hatred. Yet it also speaks of a time when swords will be turned into plougshares- or maybe tracer missiles into tractors. When the lion shall lie down with the lamb. Or when freedom fighting becomes love liberated. There will be no more sickness, no more sadness, no more dying. It's coming, when I do not know, but surely it will. And Israelis, Lebanese, Iraqis, Afghans and all the warring tribes of the world, will lie in green pastures together. Not just all Britain, but all creation, will breathe the biggest sigh of relief ever expired, when that happens. May we see it, one day not for a season, but for all eternity.
July was the hottest on record in the UK, though not quite exceeding the record high of 10th August 2003 when the Fahrenheit century (around 37 degrees Centigrade) was breached for the first time ever in the British Isles at my late mother's birthplace, Faversham in Kent. Now Midsummer has given way to High Summer as we've entered the eighth month of the year, yet already I find moments of melancholy as sunset now gets back to before 9 p.m and the shops are full of Back to School gear hardly a week after the little loves have finished the school year.
August can be a very strange month; even politicians shut their traps for a few weeks -at least in parliament during the recess. The media go all silly, but normally nobody cares as most of Britain breathes a collective sigh of relief to enjoy a few weeks of rest and relaxation and a chance to chill out- literally.
With perfect timing the two-week heatwave came to an end last weekend. Although as I write, it's still a somewhat sticky summer afternoon, the temperatures are at least below the thirty degrees celsius mark again. We Britons are just not made for extremes: we are used to a temperate climate and most of the time that reflects our expressions of our national values too. The rare, but welcome, exceptions are seen in the culture fests of this time of the year here, when Edinburgh brings its Caledonian charm to the largest international arts festival in the world, while Wales celebrates all things Cambrian with the Royal National Eisteddfod, taking place this week around the principality's second city of Swansea.
Here in England, London's Royal Albert Hall plays host to some of the most internationally-renowned orchestras and soloists as the BBC Proms season brings a wealth of music to the nation prior to the Britophile feast which is the Last Night, a tradition much imitated as an evening diversion in August across the land. I love all these events, and wish I could take part in every one in some way.
There's something about summer which is a contradiction: on the one hand, it begs you to slow the pace down to spare the body the fierce heat we are now becoming accustomed to, and yet it's a time where you long to make the most of the great outdoors visiting new places or becoming re-acquainted with ones last seen many years ago. Earlier this week, I was delighted to spend a mini break on the Sussex coast at my "other" home. We tripped through the centuries, taking in Hastings, home of a castle even in Roman times -long before William I launched the last succesful conquest of England- and the next day went to Bodiam, where everybody's idea of a fairy tale castle took me back to my first acquaintance with this heavenly location as a ten-year old.
Children and adults alike love the chance at such places to wind back the film of the imagination to an age before CGI did the imagining for us. It's enlightening and interesting to think back to the times of bold knights, wise kings and fair maidens. But the mind is tricked if it thinks that those times were really so different from the 21st century. Amidst all the chivalry, there was also great brutality, cruel and sudden death, merciless slaughter and pointless destruction of property and persons. Many children did not even live to adulthood.
Sound familiar? Sadly, it's the tale played out this summer not in imagination but in reality on the front pages and the TV screens of the world as the ever-volatile situation in the Middle East approaches a new boiling point. It might not have the outward appearance of the battles and conquests of Roman, Saxon and Medieval Europe, but the net effects are every bit as horrendous for the individual lives war always affects.
Israel is at war once again, not with a sovereign state but with a faction, Hizbullah or the "party of God", seemingly holed up in Beirut, Lebanon. Hence the land of majestic cedar trees is once again tortured by the indiscriminate explosive power of airborne weapons, and the world despairs as both sides make claims about the evil excesses of the other while innocent children and civilians are as ever the powerless victims. Just as the Lebanese capital was once again becoming an attractive holiday destination, the indelible scars of war mar more than facades. They destroy precious human bodies.
Can there ever be an end to all this wretched warfare? Is there a solution to the senseless killing which brings nothing but more tears and bitterness? Politicians will try, and Britain's PM Tony Blair is, somewhat ironically, achieving a measure of redemption amidst the enduring hatred of his part in the troubles of another part of this region, Iran. Britain had a long-standing reputation as an honest broker and peacemaker in the world's warmongering, but such policy now seems to belong to an age long gone.
Nobody can breathe any true sighs of relief while this horror remains. It's about far more than oil and land, it's about man's basic nature. Sadly, we can breathe no sighs of relief or take a holiday from "sin". All three of the religions which have fought over this part of the globe for centuries as "People of the Book", the book being the Hebrew Bible, recognise that "Sin" became an innate part of the human condition long ago. Middle East war is only the most extreme and disturbing part of that within all of us. Normally rapidly cooled down from nothing worse than a hot temper, we're nevertheless all capable of the cold-blooded murder which is the mark of extremism given the right - or wrong- spark. Like a match to parched grass, war brings uncontrollable destruction everywhere in its wake which no firefighter can control for long, it seems.
Yet still there is hope. The Hebrew Bible is an "old" testament, and so often it seems punctuated by violence and hatred. Yet it also speaks of a time when swords will be turned into plougshares- or maybe tracer missiles into tractors. When the lion shall lie down with the lamb. Or when freedom fighting becomes love liberated. There will be no more sickness, no more sadness, no more dying. It's coming, when I do not know, but surely it will. And Israelis, Lebanese, Iraqis, Afghans and all the warring tribes of the world, will lie in green pastures together. Not just all Britain, but all creation, will breathe the biggest sigh of relief ever expired, when that happens. May we see it, one day not for a season, but for all eternity.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
