A Child Ill
A Child Ill
Oh little body, do not die.
The soul looks out through wide blue eyes
So questioningly into mine,
That my tormented soul replies
“Oh little body, do not die;
You hold the soul that talks to me,
Although our conversation be
As wordless as the windy sky.”
So looked my father at the last,
Right in my soul before he died,
Though words we spoke went heedless past
As London traffic-roar outside.
And now the same blue eyes I see
Look through me from my little son,
So questioningly, so searchingly
That youthfulness and age are one.
My father looked at me and died
Before my soul made full reply.
Lord, leave this other light alight:
Oh little body, do not die.
In 1937, John Betjeman published his poem about Slough. If Slough continues to develop in a purely industrial way, with crowded houses that made living there a strain. Betjeman wants the bombs to discriminate among the residents of Slough: to get the vulgar profiteers, but to spare the bald young clerks. In many respects, the poem and the entire sentiment applies to my hometown Doncaster - infact, it's at such a crossroads right now (Doncaster) it's in close danger of becoming a parody of itself, as it has some amazing architecture, venues and space, though this isn't being utilised probably and in the main, not properly at all. I often wonder what Doncaster would be like if it used its spaces and architecture properly, and had vibrant culture that makes so many other cities in the North of England so amazing (I'm looking at you Manchester and Leeds!) - what with architecture, especially Victorian being one of John Betjeman's specialist subjects and interests.
Here's the orginal poem 'Slough' by John Betjeman.
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town —
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week for half-a-crown
For twenty years,
And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears,
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead
And talk of sports and makes of cars
In various bogus Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
Here's my version, with a northern make-over and dedicated to Doncaster!
Come friendly bombs and fall on Donny,
Where every street is grey, not sunny.
Where retail parks breed concrete spawn,
And beauty packed its bags at dawn.
Blow up the ring road, smash the shops,
Flatten Greggs and Poundland lots.
Erase the endless traffic jam,
And silence karaoke spam.
Destroy the pubs with sticky floors,
The brawls that spill through broken doors.
The racecourse drags its weary feet,
A faded echo, obsolete.
The Minster stands, a lonely guard,
While car parks spread like cancer, hard.
The Don flows sluggish, brown and slow,
Through fields where warehouses grow.
Come friendly bombs, and cleanse this northern blight,
This town of boredom, dim and trite.
Let Donny fall, let Donny die,
And spare the rest of Yorkshire’s eye.
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