Quite recently, visiting my good friend Stefanie R and staying overnight, I was perplexed to find that, at the end of a splendid evening, I had not packed the book I was reading at bedtime. Now I, like most people I know, cannot get to sleep without something enlightening to read. So, I asked Stefanie if I could look through her bookshelf to find something to put me to sleep: and she, being understanding, said “Please do. Take your pick.” Whereupon I found that her shelves were laden with interesting texts of all kinds, some of which I recalled from my days at the University of Manchester.

What I was looking for was something light and entertaining, saucy even; and so naturally my hand hesitated, and then reached for and chose The English Poems of John Milton.

A happy choice as it turned out.

Now I had not looked at Milton since the 1960s… In fact the last time I can remember reading one of his poems was when I visited the teacher, scholar, theatre director, visionary and vibrant champion of Theatre in the Round, Stephen Joseph.

Stephen, who was important in my life for it was he who had encouraged me to take up the theatre as a profession, was very ill at the time. As I was to find out later, he was actually dying, though the full circumstances of this he kept from most of us.

Knowing that Stephen was not well, I had offered to work in his garden – clearing weeds and gathering flowers for the redoubtable Mrs Pemberton-Billing (PB to all who knew her) who kept house for him and was now looking after him. I knew that Stephen loved his garden, but would not be able to take care of it.

So there I was, down on my knees amid the flowers, when Stephen (still wearing his slippers I recall) came outside to see how I was getting on. He had a small book with him and, after some hesitation, asked me if I would read a poem for him. This alone was strange, but I did not question it at the time: and of course, I agreed. The poem was a sonnet by John Milton called simply On his Blindness. And here it is.

Read, with remembrance now, it can be a cause for tears.

We studied it at university. And so I began to read it, remembering that once, after an inspiring lecture, I looked up every reference and so compiled my own version. Sadly most of that knowledge is gone now, but I do remember the way that layers of meaning were revealed as I dug out the mythology, and the echoes of classical writers – whose very works themselves become part of the poem’s meaning. It was as good an introduction to the comp;lexity of Milton’s mind as one could wish for.

And why did I do this? Well partly it was because I have a ‘notes and queries’ streak in me which means that I may spend hours chasing down the possibilities of a crossword clue. But more importantly, it was because I was inspired by the example of the Professor of English at Manchester at that time and whose name was … Frank Kermode.

Of all my teachers, and I have been lucky in having many excellent teachers, Frank Kermode stands out both for his scholarship and his capacity to inspire. He was one of those teachers who, when he lectured you, made you feel more intelligent than you really are. (And let it be said that there are some teachers who leave one feeling the opposite.) He taught Milton and Spencer – and I was not alone in hurrying to the library after his lectures on Spencer to check references in pursuit of his allegory.

But to return to Milton, I can still see Kermode standing in front of the class, his notes seemingly forgotten, and simply talking about Paradise Lost and the traditions which Milton was consciously following; drawing together idea from the renaissance and the reformation; explaining why the Romantics (by and large) found Milton’s work congenial (though Keats was a bit sniffy) and what William Blake was driving at when he said. “The reason why Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels and God, and at liberty when of Devils and Hell, is because he was a true poet and of the Devil’s party without knowing it.”

Kermode let us see what Milton had to offer, and the background that let one enjoy him – though of course one could just sit back and let the language flow. . I remember how stunned I was to discover that Milton was fluent in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French, Italian and probably Dutch and studied old English. And yet that scholarship does not stop one enjoying his works, though it can be a bit intimidating. He was, as Blake saw, a ‘true poet’, and it is the energy in his language and in his vision – of which more presently – which communicates

Undoubtedly, the genial intellect of Kermode and the scholars he assembled round him in the English Department, explain why that time at Manchester was so pleasant and so fruitful and so enjoyable not just for me but for all of us I think … and why I am on occasion sad for the friends I had at that time of poetry and skylarking, and have now lost …

I leafed on and finally came to one of my favourite poems On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity. Milton was 21 when he wrote it.

Immediately one can feel his youthful exuberance: Christ is coming to clean up the world, and put it to rights. Everything will change. The old Gods will be booted out, and a new kind of peace established.

As though to impress us, Milton has adopted a tricky rhyme scheme – which sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t – and yes, he does show off his scholarship … But that can be forgiven in a young man who is just setting out in life, prepared to teach himself if necessary, and with a vision of the things he wants to say and do in the years to come.

I was struck most forcibly by the fact that already one can see the revolutionary in him. He was a man made for opposition, for the defending of principles. With little adjustment one can replace Christ with the Paliamentary revolution which was soon to come and wipe the slate clean. In this scenario, the old Gods and nymphs etc. can be equated with the Royalists, and ultimately with the execution of a monarch. Suddenly poetry has come of age, and the stakes are high. Soon the revolution will founder, and our poet will be forced into hiding to save his life with the coming of the Restoration. Look at that second portrait.

But all that is in the future. I read on, caught up again in the vividness of Milton’s imagination. Here is the effect of the coming of the ‘Prince of Light’.