Mr Collins, my English master in the 1950's went blind overnight. He instilled his great fondness for literature in myself and the three other boys in the class. He had the wonderful ability as a teacher to find almost a musical beat in poetry. He always left you wanting more.
Mr Collins
He went blind temporarily a long time ago
A nervous reaction to what I don’t know
Some said it was worry it could be the cause
Mr Collins would tell us the right time to pause
The right time to stop the right time to think
To get inside the words ideas to shrink
And toss them about and then analyze
For the mind of a poet that was the prize
I had no pyjamas because of the heat
With Lawrence D. H. I could not compete
But the trough it reflected the swift darting tongue
Of cobra so kingly to wait while you’re young
I felt the reaction on hill of Beattock
The rhythm that beat to the sound of the clock
The mail which at night did thunder and roar
Shaking the jug near the old bedroom door
Wilkie’s White Woman to remote to be real
Whilst reading the words I felt no appeal
But I tasted the salt on smoke stack so caked
And counted moidores and monkeys and apes
La Belle Dame Sans Merci I travelled there too
With Cliff, Pete and Reggie was one of the few
So thanks Mr Collins you opened my eyes
The words of a poet I can analyze
And when in the future I beg to reflect
I do so remembering to think not neglect