The Reverend A R W Bennett(I’ve changed his name)
was a revolting little man whose
stammer, unlike most, didn’t
endear him to anyone,
and who relished a rather
unorthodox approach to teaching
which usually ended in chaos,
as neither he nor we could control
our juvenile excitement.
I should have smelt a rat
one day when he summoned me
to his flat at breakfast time,
to explain a poem I had written
for an English exam, and wishing
to counter his mockery and justify
my adolescent efforts, I argued
that it was better appreciated
read aloud, and he invited me
to perform my sentimental airs.
Ah bitter chill it was as I waxed
my treble tones over his Darjeeling
and Wilkin & Sons Fine Cut
marmalade, and sensing the
somewhat unconventional environment
felt a gnawing, awkwardness;
I hadn’t seen him before without
a dog collar, undressed, and I was
torn between expressing my
nascent muse or denying his violation
of my misappropriated feelings.
I recited the poem, but it took me
thirty years to write another.
John H Davies
18th February 2011
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