Ray

Ray (For fantastic teachers everywhere)

My book of Mayfield memories,

Is full of faces blank,

Tyrannical teachers, bullies,

Old desks and classrooms rank;

Mainly forgotten, or at least,

Their ill effects have all but ceased;

And, to be bluntly frank:

From an objective point of view;

I admit: sometimes, I bullied too.

Be that as it may; I rarely

If ever, dwell on it;

My school years were fairly, squarely,

Typical of the shit

Endorsed by the establishment,

Back when corporal punishment

Was legally, deemed fit

For teachers fond of dishing pain,

Via ruler, slipper, or cane.

Mr Collins, a breath of air;

An antidote to doom,

Wearing Joe Ninety’s, and threadbare

Cord, breezed into the gloom

Of the atmosphere, where we sat,

Quietly, waiting; and, just like that,

The mood in the classroom

Changed to something approaching cool,

On my first day at Mayfield school.

His countenance, as I recall,

Was round (but not too much);

Neither especially tall

Nor short; he was a touch

Thinning on top, comb-over style;

He had a winning, friendly smile,

His manner being such

As to emit a warming glow;

And I liked him from the get-go.

He taught English, drama and lit;

And consequently they,

Before long, were my favourite

Subjects suffice to say;

Although in fairness, metal-work, French,

Science or maths, would have been a wrench

Whatever; come what may;

I was hardly academic,

And metal work made me feel sick.

Mr Collins would improvise;

On the odd occasion,

He’d give us leave to exercise

Our imagination;

I felt, as I ad-libbed a farce,

One time, in front of all the class,

I’d found my vocation!

(And even now I can’t resist

Being an exhibitionist).

He read the Hobbit, and we laughed

At his bad mimicry,

Making the characters sound daft;

Gollum especially.

Through Mr Collin’s eyes I saw

Beauty I’d never known before;

He sparked a fire in me;

And then he left!

The fire turned cold,

And I lost heart,

At twelve years old.

But,

Like Aragorn, he returned;

Some years later, by which

Time, this candle had long since burned;

All yearnings in the ditch;

At fourteen, I was well moulded,

Beaten into shape, and scolded;

A scared kid, with a twitch,

Primed for yet another two years,

Towing/writing lines, with his peers.

I failed all my exams, bar one:

An O level, grade C

In English; and that being done,

I entered the factory

Where I winged it, not quite unskilled,

Writer’s ambitions unfulfilled,

Barring the poetry,

Written between button pushing,

When the foreman wasn’t looking.

Mr Collins, was a light ray,

And a key to a door,

Open enough for me to say,

Now I’m working no more:

If not for you, I maybe would

Have been more skilled, earning a good

Crust, but inwardly: poor,

Vexed, closed-minded, resigned to fate;

Not in the zone, (albeit late);

Cheers for unlocking,

You’re a star mate.