Born in 1906, John Betjeman is considered the most popular British poet of the twentieth century. Raised in London, Betjeman attended Highgate Junior School and Malborough before going on to Oxford University. During his younger years Betjeman studied briefly with T.S Eliot.

The British poet has earned countless awards and but his poetry is considered difficult to characterize. He had a challenging relationship with his father and Betjeman was very sensitive about his German sounding name. The poet's father had high hopes his son would follow him into the furniture making business - unfortunately Betjeman had no interest in business, instead he want to make his living through his writing.

Those two issues play out in a defensive nature in his poetry. His sensitive side comes through at times, especially when he mentions the relationship with his father in his works. However, though his ability to move a reader was significant, he was best known for his funny poetry. Though his quirkiness appealed to the public, the lack of seriousness did not always set well with critics and therefore he has seen little academic discussion since his passing in 1984.

In response to his campiness and humorous trend, Betjeman indicated that it was often easier to express serious feelings in the form of a joke or light poem. Said Betjeman, "I very rarely talk about what I really feel."

More than just a poet, Betjeman also served as a broadcaster and wrote many pieces championing Britain's long heritage. Betjeman's "Collected Poems" published in 1958 made history. That single work has since sold more than two and a quarter million copies.

Betjeman was knighted in 1969 and designated England's Poet Laureate in 1972. His last published book of poetry, "A Nip in The Air," was published in 1974. Shortly thereafter, he began suffering from Parkinson's Disease and then, from a series of strokes.

John Betjeman died on May 19th, 1984.

Inexpensive Progress

Encase your legs in nylons,
Bestride your hills with pylons
O age without a soul;
Away with gentle willows
And all the elmy billows
That through your valleys roll.
Let's say goodbye to hedges
And roads with grassy edges
And winding country lanes;
Let all things travel faster
Where motor car is master
Till only Speed remains.
Destroy the ancient inn-signs
But strew the roads with tin signs
'Keep Left,' 'M4,' 'Keep Out!'
Command, instruction, warning,
Repetitive adorning
The rockeried roundabout;
For every raw obscenity
Must have its small 'amenity,'
Its patch of shaven green,
And hoardings look a wonder
In banks of floribunda
With floodlights in between.
Leave no old village standing
Which could provide a landing
For aeroplanes to roar,
But spare such cheap defacements
As huts with shattered casements
Unlived-in since the war.
Let no provincial High Street
Which might be your or my street
Look as it used to do,
But let the chain stores place here
Their miles of black glass facia
And traffic thunder through.
And if there is some scenery,
Some unpretentious greenery,
Surviving anywhere,
It does not need protecting
For soon we'll be erecting
A Power Station there.
When all our roads are lighted
By concrete monsters sited
Like gallows overhead,
Bathed in the yellow vomit
Each monster belches from it,
We'll know that we are dead.