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People's backyards are much more interesting than their front gardens, and houses that back on to railways are public benefactors.

John Betjeman

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John Betjeman
Age: 77 †
Born: 1906
Born: August 28
Died: 1984
Died: May 19
Journalist
Literary Critic
Poet
Screenwriter
Television Presenter
Translator
London
England
Sir John Betjeman
John Betjeman Sir
Richard M. Farran
John
Sir Betjeman
People
Garden
Front
Railways
Public
Benefactors
Interesting
Railway
House
Backyards
Home
Gardens
Back
Houses
Much
Fronts

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It's strange that those we miss the most Are those we take for granted.
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Now if the harvest is over, And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter, As I lose hold.
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Topography is one of my chief themes in my poetry, about the country, the suburbs and the seaside. Then there comes love... and increasingly the fear of death.
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On out deathbeds we're not going to regret all the work we didn't do. We're going to regret all the sex we didn't have!
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Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans. Spare their women for Thy Sake, And if that is not too easy, We will pardon Thy Mistake. But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be, Don't let anyone bomb me.
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Too many people in the modern world view poetry as a luxury, not a necessity like petrol. But to me it's the oil of life.
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A whispering and watery Norfolk sound Telling of all the moonlit reeds around.
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Hymn tunes are the nearest we've got to English folk music.
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What the Londoner sees in his mind's eye is that cluster of towers and pinnacles seen from Pentonville Hill and outlined against a foggy sunset, and the great arc of Barlow's train shed gaping to devour incoming engines, and the sudden burst of exuberant Gothic of the hotel seen from gloomy Judd Street.
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I ought to warn you that my verse is of no interest to people who can think.
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There are two thing you need for a jolly good hymn.The first is a set of words that expresses the mood or sentiment of the worshipper.The second-and perhaps even more important- is a good tune..with a simple popular melody.
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Old men who never cheated, never doubted, Communicated monthly, sit and stare At the new suburb stretched beyond the run-way Where a young man lands hatless from the air.
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And behind their frail partitions Business women lie and soak, Seeing through the draughty skylight Flying clouds and railway smoke. Rest you there, poor unbelov'd ones, Lap your loneliness in heat, All too soon the tiny breakfast, Trolley-bus and windy street!
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And London shops on Christmas Eve Are strung with silver bells and flowers As hurrying clerks the City leave To pigeon-haunted classic towers, And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky
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Ludlow....is probably the loveliest town in England with its hill of Georgian houses ascending from the river Teme to the great tower of the cross-shaped church, rising behind a classic market building.
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History must not be written with bias, and both sides must be given, even if there is only one side.
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I have a Vision of the Future, chum. The workers flats in fields of soya beans tower up like silver pencils, score on score.
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Hymns are the poetry of the people.
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Imprisoned in a cage of sound, even the trivial seems profound
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