JFB - In Memoriam

I recognise that this piece will have little or no meaning to those who did not know ‘JFB’ in his teaching rôle, as I did.  John was my English master and mentor from the 1960’s who laid my path to the National Youth Theatre and Cambridge University and became a lifelong friend; most of its references will be a complete mystery.  But I feel it important as a personal Memoriam to him that I share it; he died this month, and there is to be no funeral event, at the direction of his executor and overseas relatives…

Why does Dead Poets rhyme with me?

Because My Captain has just passed -

a mentor who commanded class

by stirring love of literature,

and teaching me to seize the day.

How could at sixteen Wordsworth speak -

I hear him - ‘Michael’ - sharing weep -

but for infectious sympathy

with written word, dramatic stage

and guiding eye, prospective way?

Unpopular with old guard staff,

for he alone treated respect,

our fore before the surname, first,

relationship, supporting quest,

in unity of time and place.

I knew neither birth year, the ‘F’,

though, yes, his ex-directory,

black fountain scrawl, his high pitched tone,

rough parting dressed in dim lit glass,

demeanour of a hurried life.

Around old oak, library isle,

the daily texts hung from the wall,

while stagecraft nurtured, exeunt chased,

bare faced, that we should stand our ground -

or desks, mark of defiant stance.

To boot, school tomes, stationary -

Christopher Robin supplied stock,

transported from his bookshop shelves

to our learning academy -

so novel, volumes, scene by Pooh.

Enthusiastic atheist,

en theos, my belief of his,

his will that none should gather, fuss,

depriving us of mourning son,

that bright light dawning, drawing forth.