Born on April 25, 1949, in Lincoln, England, James Martin Fenton emerged as a luminary in the realms of poetry, journalism, and literary criticism. His journey began in a household steeped in academia, with his father, Canon John Fenton, a biblical scholar who undoubtedly nurtured his intellectual curiosity. Growing up amidst the landscapes of Lincolnshire and Staffordshire, Fenton’s early experiences were rich with the cultural and historical narratives that would later inform his poetry.
Fenton’s educational path led him to the prestigious Magdalen College at Oxford, where he not only honed his craft but also formed lasting friendships, particularly with the spirited Christopher Hitchens. Their camaraderie blossomed into a lifelong bond, with Hitchens later dedicating a chapter of his memoir, Hitch-22, to Fenton, praising his extraordinary talent. This friendship was more than mere companionship; it was a creative partnership that flourished amidst the backdrop of Oxford’s vibrant literary scene.
Fenton’s poetic debut came with the collection Terminal Moraine in 1972, which won the Gregory Award. This marked the beginning of a prolific career that would see him traverse the complexities of war and culture. His later works, particularly The Memory of War, solidified his reputation as one of the preeminent war poets of his generation, capturing the harrowing realities of conflict with a poignant and technical mastery that resonated deeply with readers.
In addition to his poetic endeavors, Fenton carved out a significant career in journalism. He served as the political correspondent for the New Statesman, where he worked alongside literary giants like Julian Barnes and Martin Amis. His experiences as a war reporter during the Vietnam War lent a visceral authenticity to his writing, allowing him to navigate the tumultuous landscapes of both poetry and prose with unparalleled insight.
Fenton’s tenure as the Oxford Professor of Poetry from 1994 to 1999 was yet another testament to his influence in the literary world. During this time, he not only taught but also inspired a new generation of poets, encouraging them to explore the depths of their creativity. His contributions to literature were recognized with numerous accolades, including the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry in 2007, affirming his status as a national treasure.
But beyond the accolades and titles, Fenton’s work is characterized by a profound engagement with the human experience. He once remarked, “The writing of a poem is like a child throwing stones into a mineshaft. You compose first, then you listen for the reverberation.” This metaphor encapsulates his artistic philosophy, emphasizing the introspective nature of poetry as a dialogue with the self and the world.
Fenton’s narrative is not merely one of accolades but of connections—his partnership with Darryl Pinckney, a celebrated novelist in his own right, adds a layer of depth to his personal life. Together, they embody a modern literary couple whose influence extends far beyond their individual works.
As we reflect on James Fenton’s legacy, we find a poet who has not only captured the essence of his time but has also shaped the very fabric of contemporary poetry and journalism. His voice continues to resonate, inviting us to explore the complexities of our own stories through the lens of his vivid imagination and keen observations. In a world that often feels fragmented, Fenton reminds us of the power of words to unite, challenge, and inspire.
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
