Aug. 31st, 2013 at 8:55 AM
Plush bees above a bed of dahlias;
Leisurely, timeless garden teas;
Brown bread and honey; scent of mowing;
The still green light below tall trees.
The ancient custom of deception;
A Press that seldom stoops to lies -
Merely suppresses truth and twists it,
Blandly corrupt and slyly wise.
The Common Man; his mask of laughter;
His back-chat while the roof falls in;
Minorities' long losing battles
Fought that the sons of sons may win.
The politicians' inward snigger
(Big Business on the private phone);
The knack of sitting snug on fences;
The double face of flesh and stone.
Grape-bloom of distant woods at dusk;
Stone-crown on Glaramara's head;
The fire-rose over London night;
An old plough rusting autumn-red.
The "incorruptible policeman"
Gaoling the whore whose bribe's run out,
Guarding the rich against the poor man,
Guarding the Settled Gods from doubt.
The generous smile of music-halls,
Bars and bank-holidays and queues;
The private peace of public foes;
The truce of pipe and football news.
The smile of privilege exulant;
Smile at the "bloody Red" defeated;
Smile at the striker starved and broken;
Smile at the "dirty nigger" cheated.
The old hereditary craftsman;
The incommunicable skill;
The pride in long-loved tools, refusal
To do the set job quick or ill.
The greater artist mocked, misflattered;
The lesser forming clique and team
Or crouching in the narrow corner,
Narcisssus with his secret dream.
England of rebels - Blake and Shelley;
England where freedom's sometimes won,
Where Jew and Negro needn't fear yet
Lynch-law and pogrom, whip and gun.
England of cant and smug discretion;
England of wagecut-sweatshop-knight,
Of sportsman-churchman-slum-exploiter,
Of puritan grown sour with spite.
England of clever fool, mad genius,
Timorous lion and arrogant sheep,
Half-hearted snob and shamefaced bully,
Of hands that wake and eyes that sleep.....
England the snail that's shod with lightning....
Shall we laugh or shall we weep?
Originally posted by
clairehawthorn at ENGLAND (Autumn 1938) by - A S J Tessimond
Leisurely, timeless garden teas;
Brown bread and honey; scent of mowing;
The still green light below tall trees.
The ancient custom of deception;
A Press that seldom stoops to lies -
Merely suppresses truth and twists it,
Blandly corrupt and slyly wise.
The Common Man; his mask of laughter;
His back-chat while the roof falls in;
Minorities' long losing battles
Fought that the sons of sons may win.
The politicians' inward snigger
(Big Business on the private phone);
The knack of sitting snug on fences;
The double face of flesh and stone.
Grape-bloom of distant woods at dusk;
Stone-crown on Glaramara's head;
The fire-rose over London night;
An old plough rusting autumn-red.
The "incorruptible policeman"
Gaoling the whore whose bribe's run out,
Guarding the rich against the poor man,
Guarding the Settled Gods from doubt.
The generous smile of music-halls,
Bars and bank-holidays and queues;
The private peace of public foes;
The truce of pipe and football news.
The smile of privilege exulant;
Smile at the "bloody Red" defeated;
Smile at the striker starved and broken;
Smile at the "dirty nigger" cheated.
The old hereditary craftsman;
The incommunicable skill;
The pride in long-loved tools, refusal
To do the set job quick or ill.
The greater artist mocked, misflattered;
The lesser forming clique and team
Or crouching in the narrow corner,
Narcisssus with his secret dream.
England of rebels - Blake and Shelley;
England where freedom's sometimes won,
Where Jew and Negro needn't fear yet
Lynch-law and pogrom, whip and gun.
England of cant and smug discretion;
England of wagecut-sweatshop-knight,
Of sportsman-churchman-slum-exploiter,
Of puritan grown sour with spite.
England of clever fool, mad genius,
Timorous lion and arrogant sheep,
Half-hearted snob and shamefaced bully,
Of hands that wake and eyes that sleep.....
England the snail that's shod with lightning....
Shall we laugh or shall we weep?
Originally posted by

Comments
I'd like to know more about Tessimond -- will Google!
Thanks, my new friend!
Hugz, Justine
His poetry was published, beginning in 1936, but wasnkt all that popular in his lifetime. He died in 1962, and evidently became better known subsequently.
Thanks again!
The ancient custom of deception
Re: The ancient custom of deception