James Fenton is a renowned British poet, journalist, and literary critic. Born in Lincoln, England, on this day April 25, 1949, Fenton has made significant contributions to the world of poetry with his unique style and approach to writing. He is well known for his work as an editor of the New Statesman magazine, a position he held in the 1970s. Fenton’s contributions to the literary world have been recognized with numerous awards and accolades, including the prestigious Newdigate Prize, which he won while studying at Oxford University.
Fenton’s father, John Fenton, was a prominent theologian and academic, and his parents’ influence is evident in his writing. Fenton’s poetry is characterized by its intellectual depth, wit, and playfulness with language. His works explore themes of love, war, politics, and religion, among others. Fenton’s poetry has been described as both traditional and experimental, as he has experimented with various forms and techniques throughout his career.
Fenton’s career has been marked by his commitment to social and political causes. He has used his platform as a journalist and literary figure to speak out against war and oppression, and he has been a vocal advocate for free speech and human rights. Fenton has also been involved in various humanitarian efforts, including work with refugees and victims of conflict.
James Fenton is a multifaceted talent whose contributions to the literary world and beyond have been significant. His unique perspective and commitment to social and political causes have made him an important voice in contemporary culture. Fenton’s poetry continues to inspire and captivate readers around the world, and his legacy as a writer and activist is sure to endure.
Jerusalem
1
Stone cries to stone,
Heart to heart, heart to stone,
And the interrogation will not die
For there is no eternal city
And there is no pity
And there is nothing underneath the sky
No rainbow and no guarantee –
There is no covenant between your God and me.
2
It is superb in the air.
Suffering is everywhere
And each man wears his suffering like a skin.
My history is proud.
Mine is not allowed
This is the cistern where all wars begin,
The laughter from the armoured car.
This is the man who won’t believe you’re what you are.
3
This is your fault.
This is a crusader vault.
The Brook of Kidron flows from Mea She’arim.
I will pray for you.
I will tell you what to do.
I’ll stone you. I shall break your every limb.
Oh I am not afraid of you
But maybe I should fear the things you make me do.
4
This is not Golgotha.
This is the Holy Sepulchre,
The Emperor Hadrian’s temple to a love
Which he did not much share.
Golgotha could be anywhere.
Jerusalem itself is on the move.
It leaps and leaps from hill to hill
And as it makes its way it also makes its will.
5
The city was sacked.
Jordan was driven back.
The pious Christians burned the Jews alive.
This is a minaret.
I’m not finished yet.
We’re waiting for reinforcements to arrive.
What was your mother’s real name?
Would it be safe today to go to Bethlehem?
6
This is the Garden Tomb.
No, this is the Garden Tomb.
I’m an Armenian. I am a Copt.
This is Utopia.
I came here from Ethiopia.
This hole is where the flying carpet dropped
The Prophet off to pray one night
And from here one hour later he resumed his flight.
7
Who packed your bag?
I packed my bag.
Where was your uncle’s mother’s sister born?
Have you ever met an Arab?
Yes I am a scarab.
I am a worm. I am a thing of scorn.
I cry Impure from street to street.
And see my degradation in the eyes I meet.
8
I am your enemy.
This is Gethsemane.
The broken graves look to the Temple Mount.
Tell me now, tell me when
When shall we all rise again?
Shall I be first in that great body count?
When shall the tribes be gathered in?
When, tell me, when shall the Last Things begin?
9
You are in error.
This is terror.
This is your banishment. This land is mine.
This is what you earn.
This is the Law of No Return.
This is the sour dough, this the sweet wine.
This is my history, this my race
And this unhappy man threw acid in my face.
10
Stone cries to stone,
Heart to heart, heart to stone.
These are the warrior archaeologists.
This is us and that is them.
This is Jerusalem.
These are the dying men with tattooed wrists.
Do this and I’ll destroy your home.
I have destroyed your home. You have destroyed my home.
-James Fenton
Curated by Jennifer
