Poetry & Prose

John Betjeman

On the south bank of the Thames protected from the weather by Waterloo Bridge, there’s a second hand book shop and however hard I try, I can never walk past without browsing.  When I find a bargain I snatch it from the table and pay the man.  I have no idea where the books come from and I don’t really care either. Anyway, when I found a copy of John Betjeman’s best of, I couldn’t resist, especially since it was just over three quid. It was a pleasure doing business for something so enjoyable.

John Betjeman was actually born John Betjemann in 1906. His surname was changed during World War I to sound less German. The family lived at Parliament Hill Mansions in Highgate North London. In 1909 they moved to a more opulent part of Highgate.

Statue of John Betjeman at St Pancras International

Betjeman was educated at Byron House and Highgate School where he was taught by none other than the poet T S Eliot.  He then went on to board at the Dragon School preparatory school in Oxford.  After failing the maths section of the entry exam, Betjeman struggled to get into university, but was accepted as a non-scholarship student.  While at Magdalen College, he was tutored by a young C S Lewis so at this stage of his education, Betjeman had been introduced to two literary greats.

After university, Betjeman worked for a brief period of time as a private secretary, school teacher and film critic. He was employed by the Architectural Review as assistant editor from 1930-1935 and this employer was said to be his true university. During this period, he married Penelope Chetwode and their first child was born in 1937.

If you’ve read any of his work, you’ll understand why I was excited about the book.  Betjeman’s subjects are places and the everyday.  I wouldn’t say the wording is simple, but there is a touch of comedy and it really is easy to understand.  There isn’t a great deal of abstract in his work and his humour only adds to the honesty. If you've never been aquainted, there’s still time.

John Betjeman passed away in 1984 and is buried in the churchyard at St Enodoc’s church in Cornwall. I wish I had known him.  I think he would have been interesting to talk to and the kind of man that people are just drawn to. His style is formidable and charismatic – I love it.  Oh and after sprouting about how much I like the late John Betjeman, might I add that Once upon a time in London, a Poet Laureate pushed aside the pretentious and gave the world an offering of enjoyable modernism that really is second to none.

 

Who’s Afraid?

Virginia Woolf

Really and truly, I had no idea how to start this.  When I first began to read Mrs Dalloway, I didn’t realise the path the book would actually take and to me, what started with a nice walk along Bond Street took a downwards spiral to something that resembled a party plot of ‘Keeping up Appearances.’ To be honest, I couldn’t wait to finish the book and on this occasion, the author is definitely more interesting to me than this particular story. Please forgive me if I’ve offended any of you by saying that and sadly, I wouldn’t be inclined to read any of her other work.

The troubled life of Adeline Virginia Stephen started on the 25^th of January 1882 in London England. But if you read the authors memoirs, her most vivid memories are of St Ives, Cornwall where the family spent every summer up to 1895.

Her tragic descent began when she lost her mother in that very year at the age of 13 and then the loss of her half-sister two years later, led to the first of Virginia’s many breakdowns. The death of her father in 1904 led to her being institutionalised. Her breakdowns and subsequent mood swings were also said to be the result of sexual abuse from her half-brothers which is included in her memoirs.

The plaque on the house in Hyde Park Gate

Educated by her parents in their home in Hyde Park Gate, Virginia did later attend Kings College and studied several languages in the ladies department.  Woolf began her writing career in 1900 for the Times and her first novel was published in 1915. Some might say that a story slightly reflects the personal experience of the writer.  If this is the case, in my opinion, it seems that her private world made a public debut in much of her work.

The picture of Woolf on a window of Kings College

Woolf was a member of the Bloomsbury group and played a part in the Dreadnought Hoax dressed as an Abyssinian prince.  The six members sent a telegram to HMS Dreadnought instructing that the ship must be prepared for the group of princes to visit.  The UK foreign office even arranged a VIP coach for the group.  The group showed their appreciation of the tour with the words ‘Bunga Bunga.’ When revealed as a hoax, the expedition was an embarrassment to the Navy and the Home Office and when the official Emperor of Ethiopia requested to view the vessel, the request was declined.

She married Leonard Woolf in 1912 and although she was troubled mentally and extremely fond of the same sex, their marriage was in her words, complete. There were never any children of course, but if you read into her life, it’s to be expected.

Virginia spent the last years of her life with her husband in Sussex at Monks House which is now maintained by the National Trust.  After completing the manuscript of her last novel, she slipped once again into a deep depression and on the 28^th of March 1941 after writing her last words in a note to her husband, she filled her pockets with stones and walked into the River Ouse.

The tragic life of Virginia Woolf is a story that affects everybody differently and it’s definitely worth telling you that, Once upon a time in 1941, a woman who loved her work, fell out of love with the world and left it behind.

http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/monks-house/

http://www.museumofhoaxes.com/hoax/archive/permalink/dreadnought_hoax/

Spit Spot – Mary Poppins – P L Travers

London is abuzz with the Olympics and tuning into the opening ceremony on Friday night was a must. I was thrilled that English literature was included, but when Mary Poppins flew in to the stadium to save the children from some story book villains, I turned to my son and said, “Mary Poppins was written by an Australian.”

Pamela Lyndon Travers, (Helen Lyndon Goff) was born on the 9^th of August 1899 in Maryborough, a town in Queensland, Australia. Travers’ father was a failed banker and following his death the family moved to Bowral in New South Wales. Goff left the sunny shores of Australia and relocated to England in 1926. She wrote the first of the Poppins books in 1933 under the name of P L Travers.

Alright, so she wrote the books in the UK, and even though she was awarded an OBE, there is no monument to this writer in London.  There is a plaque on the Sydney Writers Walk and a statue of the fictional British nanny in Maryborough Queensland. I guess what I would like to see is a blue plaque on the house where she lived in Chelsea - at the very least.

The stories of the Banks family and their nanny are somewhat different than what we see portrayed on the screen. The Mary Poppins literary nanny is slightly darker and sterner and of course, in the books there were more than two children in the family. However, the movie did set Travers up financially, even though she didn’t approve of cartoon characters interacting with the actors. As a result, she never agreed to a Poppins/Disney film again although she was approached on numerous occasions. The movie, Saving Mr Banks starts filming in September this year and centres on the life of Travers and the ‘negotiations’ with Walt Disney and the making of the 1960’s film.

P L Travers never married, but adopted an Irish boy, separating him from his twin as she refused to take both children. The boys were reunited later in life.

From what I can gather, it seems that Travers fashioned the nanny after herself. However, her personal life is somewhat elusive as she invented stories for the tabloids as a camouflage so a lot of secrets went to the grave with her in 1996.

Really and truly, where she was born doesn’t matter, what matters is the brilliant literature that Pamela Lyndon Travers presented to the world, and a character that Once upon a time in London, created magic that was embraced by the world in a most delightful way.

“I don’t like people….I only like horses.” National Velvet – Enid Bagnold

To be honest, I never went looking for Enid Bagnold.  I just happened to stumble upon a house that she lived in when I was looking for someone else.  It’s funny how writers seemed to congregate in the same areas.

Enid Bagnold lived in the same street as Sir Winston Churchill and Virginia Woolf

Enid Algerine Bagnold was born on the 27^th October 1889 in Rochester Kent. Although born in the UK, she was brought up mostly in Jamaica; however Enid did attend school in London.

During World War I, Enid was a nurse but was dismissed from work after writing critically about the hospital’s administration. The rest of the war was spent in France as a driver. These experiences were portrayed in written form as A Diary Without Dates and The Happy Foreigner.

Enid married Roderick Jones in 1920, but continued to write under her maiden name.  By all accounts, it seems that this woman was strong willed and determined.  Perhaps not a feminist as such, but a rebellious woman who believed ordinary women could do extraordinary things and this comes to light in National Velvet.

Before I even read National Velvet, I watched a television show  about a girl named Velvet Brown and her love for her horse King. Velvet’s constant desire was for King to one day win the Grand National.  The original story is slightly different.  Set in a small English coastal town, it’s the story of a 14 year old girl who rides a horse to victory in the prestigious Grand National in the 1920’s. But more than that, it’s a story of inspiration about an ordinary girl who broke the rules and succeeded.

Enid Bagnold – Lady Jones, passed away in 1981 and is buried in St Mary’s Churchyard in Rottingdean, not far from the home that she shared with her husband. Throughout her life she chose the path of truth and difficulty and received a CBE for her efforts in 1976 which leads me to say that, Once upon a time in England, a self-believer wrote a story that inspires us to do whatever we believe we can.

‘If I cannot inspire love, then I will cause fear!’ - Mary Shelley

Ok, so I know I strayed a little off track last week, but please forgive me my flaws.  This week you might be happy to know, I’m visiting what some refer to as, the horror genre, and getting in touch with my parental instincts at the same time.  If you have a thirst for rich gothic style as I do, then our subject will satisfy.

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin was born on the 30^th of August 1797 in Somers Town London. Of course, we know her as Mary Shelley. There was no formal education for Shelley, she was merely taken on educational outings by her father, and had access to his library and was an avid reader.

Mary fell in love with the already married Percy Bysshe Shelley, and against her father’s wishes, the couple ran off together.  They travelled around Europe, but it was in Geneva that Mary Shelley got the idea for her most famous novel Frankenstein while sitting around a campfire telling ghost stories.

87 Marchmont St London

I must admit that when I was growing up, I thought that Frankenstein was the name of the hideous monster, but after reading the book, I discovered that it was the name of the doctor and not his wretched creature.  But which one is the true fiend? It has been said that Frankenstein’s monster is the result of what might happen when a man tries to have a baby without a woman and of course, a little radical thinking.

A gift from my son Warren

This book is one of my all-time favourites and, unfortunately, the only one of her books I have read to date.  I have a beautiful copy that my son Warren bought for me. When I first read the story of Frankenstein, it didn’t have the same impact that it had all these years later.  Now I have children of my own, I understand the importance and love that goes into choosing a name and it saddens me to think that the character created by Mary Shelley and brought to life by the doctor, never really had that identity to relate to. If I were to rewrite Frankenstein, I would definitely name the creation.


Mary Shelley passed away in 1851 and is buried in Bournemouth at St Peters Church along with her parents. There’s so much more that I could tell you about her tragic life, but everything has to end eventually, contrary to which I say that, Once upon a time in the 1800’s Mary Shelley created a monster that  has been  continuously resurrected to live for ever.

My Mother said, I never should – anonymous

This week while researching for my blog, I came across some rhymes from my childhood and one in particular stood out to me.  It’s a rhyme about playing in the woods with Gypsies and I started researching the origins.  You can imagine my surprise and disappointment when I couldn’t really find what I was looking for. 

I believe this particular rhyme was a clapping song and the author is unknown.  To me the words conjure up something sinister and we all know that parents once said anything to scare children into behaving themselves.  I remember my own mother telling me if I pulled a face and the wind change direction I would stay that way for ever, and guess what – I believed her!

Traditional Gypsy Caravan

Anyway, back to the rhyme and the subject, Gypsies. I’ve always wondered about Gypsies.  I know that they have a bad rep for jumping over peoples back fences and not paying for taxis and the like, but to me, when I think of Gypsies, I think of adventure.  I think of crystal balls and tarot cards and brightly coloured caravans pulled by Clydesdales. I think of barefooted children with snotty noses laughing and playing in fields.  I think of campfires with dogs sniffing around them and dark haired men playing guitars. I think of women with hooped earrings and colourful clothing dancing. But most of all I think of this rhyme from my childhood.  So here it is, the complete version – I hope.

My mother said, I never should
Play with the Gypsies in the wood;
If I did, she would say,
Naughty little girl to disobey.
Your hair shan't curl,
Your shoes shan't shine,
You gypsy girl, you shan't be mine.
And my father said if I did,
he'd rap my head with the teapot lid.

The wood was dark, the grass was green,
In came Sally with a tambourine.
I went to sea - no ship to get across,
I paid ten shillings for a blind white horse,
I up on his back,
and was off in a crack -
Sally, tell my mother I shall never come back.

Nowadays, this type of rhyme just isn’t pc. You wouldn’t be singing a clapping song like this with your friend in school just in case you offended somebody. But I love these old rhymes.  They were written before political correctness was introduced, in a simpler time.  So if you know the origin of this one, please let me know. Hopefully I won’t be saying in the future, Once upon a time in 2012, I asked a question about a rhyme and didn’t get an answer.

And hand in hand on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon 

 Edward Lear

Everybody likes a little bit of nonsense every now and then, don’t they?  I for one love to escape from the normality of everyday life and when it comes in the form of a book, it’s even better.  This week I’d like to introduce an artist who was known for nonsense. So without further ado, please make welcome, Edward Lear.

Born in Holloway in 1812, Edward was the 20^th of 21 children and the youngest to survive. He was raised by his sister Ann who was 21 years older than Edward and when he was four, they left the family home and were forced to set up house alone due to the family's failing fortune.

Edward suffered ill health in the combination of bronchitis, asthma and epilepsy, and later in life partial blindness. He felt guilt and shame from his epileptic seizures, but Edward always sensed the onset of them and was able to move out of public places - as in his time, seizures were believed to be associated with demonic possession.

Lear liked to travel and he also painted, but to me he is more known for his nonsense.  I enjoy limericks and I’m happy to report that none of his mention Nantucket. My favourite Lear work is not a limerick but a rhyming story called, ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’.  The poem is classic Lear nonsense with mention of a piggy-wig in the land of Bong-trees and a runcible spoon. It conjures up images that make me smile.

Edward Lear is buried in Foce Cemetery in San Remo, Italy. The centenary of his death in 1988 was marked with a set of Royal Mail stamps and this year when he would have been 200 years old if he had lived that long, Google honoured the date with a depiction of the Owl and the Pussycat dancing.

Edward Lear’s limericks continue to inspire people to write in that fashion, which inspires me to tell you that,

Once upon a time very near

Lived a writer who brought us good cheer

When they asked, “who is he?”

He replied, “can’t you see?”

The nonsensical Edward Lear.