Penelope wrote:All the while we were standing around listening to the life of Clifford, and how he met and married my friend, Eileen, the ducks were pecking about unconcernedly around our feet.

Penny: I like your description "the ducks pecking about unconcernedly" - there is lot of truth in this statement. The world of fowl and beasts and other critters really does not concern itself with our lives, nor should they. Perhaps we think differently of a pet dog or cat but this might be self-delusion and, in any case, may just result from their dependency on us. Somehow, I think it's good that the animals kingdom is largely 'unconcerned' ... perhaps it helps us be more humble about our significance as a species ...

giselle, I liked the ducks and geese being around the graveyard because it made death just seem natural: sad, but natural.


In an ordinary orthodox funeral, all is enshrouded in mysticism and a certain amount of pomposity. What comfort is there in the words, 'Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust...in the sure and certain knowledge of the resurrection'....When actually, no one is sure and certain about any such thing?

In sectarian Ireland, the graveyards are segregated. The catholics on one side the protestants on the other, with a wall between. I don't know why, unless it's in case they muddle themselves up at the resurrection, which would never do.

Oh, let's get back to Love Poems:

The Subaltern's Love Song

Miss J.Hunter Dunn, Miss J.Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surry twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.


John Betjeman

Oh, my!

They strolled down the lane together
The sky was studded with stars
The reached gate in silence
And he lifted down the bars

She neither smiled nor thanked him
Because she knew not how
For he was just a farmer boy
And she a Jersey cow.

(edited to add: I don't know who wrote this or where I learned it, but it's not original.)

The Subaltern's Love Song

Good poem, Penny, I read it over a couple times and contemplated the 'subaltern' theme - I think I see it .... And love, tennis -- tennis, love -- What's the difference? Not much that I can see. And what could make that clearer than the word 'love' having meaning in tennis, seems quite appropriate ... but why does 'love' mean "zero points"? I think someone with a sense of humour came up with that ... Here is Wiki's explanation (and they seem doubtful about it!) ... made me think of the expression "a big goose egg" ...

"The origin of the use of "love" for zero is also disputed. It is possible that it derives from the French expression for "the egg" (l'œuf) because an egg looks like the number zero.[2][3] This is similar to the origin of the term "duck" in cricket, supposedly from "duck's egg", referring to a batsman who has been called out without completing a run. "Love" is also said to derive from l'heure "the hour" in French[citation needed]. A third possibility comes from the Dutch expression iets voor lof doen, which means to do something for praise, implying no monetary stakes.[4] Another theory on the origins of the use of "love" comes from the acceptance that, at the start of any match, when scores are at zero, players still have "love for each other".[5]"

Well giselle, I think all of Wikki's reasoning for the origin of the word 'Love' to mean 'nothing' are suspect.

I always assumed it was called love - meaning nothing - because we don't think of payback when we do something for love. Like ironing our partners shirts, caring for our children. Perhaps it is called Love in tennis because at that stage, the competition hasn't built up, but that's what you said, not in so many words.

I do love the Subaltern's poem because it is so fresh and sweet. A sort of innocent sexuality, and I love the inuendos:-

What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!

With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn


but, my most favourite:-

The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.


Betjeman was a small stocky bucktoothed chap, but very sexual it seems. He had not one, but two, long-term mistresses as well as his wife, it was discovered after his death. I think he must have been just so charming. He definitely is my favourite poet and I'm sure I'd have liked him enormously had I met him.

Is anyone else, like me, in that, if I don't like the poet or author as a person, I find it difficult to like their work, they sort of sit on my shoulder getting in the way of the script. Richard Adams, author of 'Watership Down' is a case in point. I really loved the book until I saw Adams being interviewed on TV and then it quite lost its charm for me. How silly!

Penelope wrote:Well giselle, I think all of Wikki's reasoning for the origin of the word 'Love' to mean 'nothing' are suspect.

I always assumed it was called love - meaning nothing - because we don't think of payback when we do something for love. Like ironing our partners shirts, caring for our children. Perhaps it is called Love in tennis because at that stage, the competition hasn't built up, but that's what you said, not in so many words.

I do love the Subaltern's poem because it is so fresh and sweet. A sort of innocent sexuality, and I love the inuendos:-

Penny, I like your idea that zero is called Love in tennis because of lack of payback, makes more sense than the Wiki interpretations. But of course Love is still counted when the competition has built up and for example the score is lopsided, as in '40-love' and when the player with 'love' is likely facing defeat ... so, maybe we could say that losing player has 'naught but love' ... ?

The sexual innuendo is really clear as you say and I think works well in the poem, quite fitting really in what is apparently a young romantic love situation (they walk in her father's garden) ... would be rather odd if there wasn't a sexual element!

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,

The pleasure he takes in the fact that she wins the tennis match is a great twist, he seems genuinely pleased that she is the victor, which is a romantic thought in my books, and I think brings up the subaltern theme. I wondered if there is a 'subaltern' theme in a class sense somehow implied here? This is a tennis club with a parking lot of "Austins and Rovers", I wouldn't know an Austin from a Rover but maybe this might imply something about money and 'class'? (although, for some reason, I think of Austins as quite common cars, so maybe I'm way off base on this ... ?)

The Austins and the Rovers are fairly common nowadays, but at the time this poem was written, if you owned a car of any sort, you were posh.

The mere fact that they played tennis, is very middle class.

The proletariat didn't own cars and didn't do tennis. Betjeman's poetry is often very middle class, and very, very English. We were, and still are, a very class-ridden society.

There was a lot of opportunity for social mobility after the last war and we all took on middle class values to a great degree. There isn't much wrong with middle class values, in my opinion. I think Betjeman helped to endear them to us with his humour. Of course the radio and television were a major influence.

Betjeman was naughty, but he did it so very 'nicely'.....

Here's a link with a picture of the girl who inspired Joan Hunter Dunn and she does look very 'nice'.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7352230.stm

Strictly speaking, this shouldn't be in 'Love Poems' except that Betjeman loved his fellow man:-


Slough
by John Betjeman (1906 - 1984)

John Betjeman published his poem about Slough in 1937 in the collected works Continual Dew. Slough was becoming increasingly industrial and some housing conditions were very cramped. In willing the destruction of Slough, Betjeman urges the bombs to pick out the vulgar profiteers but to spare the bald young clerks. He really was very fond of his fellow human beings. Slough is much improved nowadays and he might be pleasantly surprised by a stroll there.

Slough
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 a 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 sport 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.

Penelope wrote:Strictly speaking, this shouldn't be in 'Love Poems' except that Betjeman loved his fellow man:-

Slough
by John Betjeman (1906 - 1984)

That's an interesting word - Slough. Slough as a part of London (suburb?) rhymes with "now", otherwise the first verse of this poem wouldn't work too well. But 'slough' can also be a backwater, if it rhymes with 'stew', not to imply that Slough as in 'now' is a backwater ... and then one could 'slough off' ones responsibilities like a 'snake sloughs off its skin', but only if 'slough' rhymes with 'stuff' rather than 'now' or 'stew'. So we have three 'sloughs' - slough (now), slough (stew) and slough (stuff) with three unrelated meanings. Quite a versatile word, that "slough".