Poem

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This poem by John Betjeman originally appeared in the May 1957 edition of The London Magazine, alongside poetry by George Seferis, fiction by Franz Kafka and essays by Maurice Cranston, William Golding and Philip Larkin.

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First there was putting hot-water bottles to it,
     Then there was seeing what an osteopath could do,
Then trying drugs to coax the thing and woo it,
     Then came the time when he knew that he was through.

Now in his hospital bed I see him lying
     Limp on the pillows like a cast-off Teddy bear,
Is he too ill to know that he is dying?
     And, if he does know, does he really care?

Grey looks the ward with November’s overcasting
     But his large eyes seem to see beyond the day,
Speech becomes sacred near silence everlasting
     Oh if I must speak, have I words to say?

In the past weeks we had talking about Variety,
     Vesta Victoria, Lew Lake and Wilkie Bard,
Horse-buses, hansoms, crimes in High Society –
     Although we knew his death was near, we fought against it hard.

Now from his remoteness in a stillness unaccountable
     He drags himself to earth again to say goodbye to me
His final generosity when almost insurmountable
     The barriers and mountains he has crossed again must be.

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John Betjeman was an English poet, writer and broadcaster. He was Poet Laureate from 1972 until his death.

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