Today’s poem was one I first read in Christopher Hitchens’ The Portable Atheist. This is slightly odd since its author was not an atheist himself. However, this poem is a biting little satire of prayer, one whose point is all the more valid for having been made by a believer, and as such, it makes for a good entry in this series.
John Betjeman was an English poet who lived during the twentieth century. He studied at Oxford, where he ultimately left without obtaining a degree. While there, he studied under C.S. Lewis. According to Betjeman’s blank-verse autobiography Summoned by Bells, Lewis did not like him, and the feeling was mutual.
After Oxford, Betjeman began to publish poetry. His work was nostalgic, sentimental and evocative, yet with a playful and humorous streak. Combined with his work as a television broadcaster, it made him hugely popular with the public. In 1972, he was named the UK’s Poet Laureate, which title he held until his death in 1984.
Betjeman was an Anglican, but many of his poems contain elements of uncertainty and doubt. In his poem “The Conversion of St. Paul”, he writes: “But most of us turn slow to see / The figure hanging on a tree / And stumble on and blindly grope / Upheld by intermittent hope”. All these tendencies are also on display in today’s poem, a sharp, witty satire of the self-centered nature of most personal prayer, written from the viewpoint of a high-class English lady during World War II.
In Westminster Abbey
Let me take this other glove off
As the vox humana swells,
And the beauteous fields of Eden
Bask beneath the Abbey bells.
Here, where England’s statesmen lie,
Listen to a lady’s cry.
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.
Keep our Empire undismembered
Guide our Forces by Thy Hand,
Gallant blacks from far Jamaica,
Honduras and Togoland;
Protect them Lord in all their fights,
And, even more, protect the whites.
Think of what our Nation stands for,
Books from Boots and country lanes,
Free speech, free passes, class distinction,
Democracy and proper drains.
Lord, put beneath Thy special care
One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square.
Although, dear Lord, I am a sinner,
I have done no major crime;
Now I’ll come to Evening Service
Whensoever I have the time.
So, Lord, reserve for me a crown.
And do not let my shares go down.
I will labour for Thy Kingdom,
Help our lads to win the war,
Send white flowers to the cowards
Join the Women’s Army Corps,
Then wash the Steps around Thy Throne
In the Eternal Safety Zone.
Now I feel a little better,
What a treat to hear Thy word,
Where the bones of leading statesmen,
Have so often been interr’d.
And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait
Because I have a luncheon date.
Other posts in this series: