Count Me Out

It’s not that

I’m a scaredy cat,

It’s just that

I don’t like caves

and the feeling of doom

in the colourless gloom

flowing over you

in waves.

It’s the way

your voice rolls

round and around,

echoing low and weird,

and your torch becomes

such a little light,

every shadow one

to be feared.

It’s the way

the clammy cold

grips you, chills you

through to your very bones

and how every sound

when you’re underground

is some unspeakable thing

that groans.

It’s the way

that you slip

on slime underfoot and it’s

hard to remember the sun,

so when kids want to explore

all the caves on the shore

I say, ‘Count me out.

It’s no fun!’

© Moira Andrew

Full House

Words inhabit my head

like a house.  In over-

enthusiasm they tumble

downstairs in a jumble

of arms and legs and

syllables.  Some words

shout at me, waving

banners of grammar

from attic windows.

Some I find sitting

prim as sentences

on the settee.  Others

hide in cupboards,

come out confused,

complicated as cross-

words.  The lazy ones

won’t get out of bed

in the mornings, lie

and wait for me to

rouse them thought

by thought.  They

ignore me altogether

at times, carry on

as if I wasn’t there,

whispering in corners,

upsetting my ideas.

Sometimes words rebel,

won’t rock to my rhythms,

move meanings around

like furniture.  Mostly

they keep busy polishing

their phrases.  At night

they run from room to

room, scripting my dreams.

© Moira Andrew

First Success

The sun newly-minted

in the summer sky, the

mesmeric sound of roller

on clay, gentle pthud

thud of racquet on ball,

grandmother mouthing my                 

words under her breath.

My words!  I watched

her eyes, magnified to

medallions, move slowly

across the page.  ‘Lovely

poem,’ she said, smiling.

We sat in the sun, well-pleased

one with the other.

© Moira Andrew

No Ordinary Day

It was the saddest day

we had ever known.

No pushing or shoving,

everyone unusually

well-behaved.

Assembly, no teachers,

just us listening, the Head

holding back tears, trying

to tell us how she felt about

the accident.

Playtime, but nobody

played.  We whispered,

watching the empty road,

where no-one walked this

summer morning.

The village held its breath.

We stood by the gate, cooks,

cleaners, caretaker, teachers,

children.  We waited together

in silence.

Then, ‘He’s coming!  Adrian’s

coming!’ one of the little ones

called.  Glittering like glass,

a long black car inched

round the corner.

In the back, a small coffin,

buried under a mound of

flowers.  Then came the cars

full of familiar people in

unfamiliar black.

They slid past the school.

‘A five-minute run-around,

then inside!’ the duty teacher

said.  Released, we tumbled on

to the grass.

The day struggled back to

nearly-normal.  At home-time,

parents grabbed our hands

and the ice-cream van had

few customers.

© Moira Andrew

My Little Sister

They said they'd let me

hold her in the garden

for a photograph.

'Be careful,' they said.

'She's new and tiny

and very very precious,'

They sat me on a chair,

my legs dangling.

'Ready now?' they asked.

And they placed her

on my lap, wriggling and wet.

'Smile,' they said.

I tried, but it wasn't easy

to hold the baby and smile,

both at the same time.

© Moira Andrew

Moira Andrew was born and educated in Scotland. She is a
former primary school headteacher and College of Education
lecturer. Currently Moira works as an INSET provider.
She is also a part-time tutor in Creative Writing at the University of
Glamorgan and a poet-in-schools.
As well as being a widely-published poet, Moira has also
written many books on how to teach poetry.

To visit Moira's website, or to purchase any of her books,
please click on the link at the bottom of the page.

Do you know any really bad jokes?

An immediate problem – the trouble is I don’t do jokes.  Perhaps I might if I were any good, but I’m not and I know it.  I can never get the punch line right.  I love wordplay, however, clever headlines and unexpected twists at the end of a poem.  When we were driving, my husband and I used to collect quirky hairdressers’ signs, Fringe Benefits, Hot Heads, Loose Ends and the like.  Not much of a joke, of course, but the kind of wordplay that appeals to me.

How old were you when you wrote your first poem?

I don’t know exactly how old I was when I wrote my first poem – seven or eight, I reckon.  As far as I remember, it was something I did from the time I learned to write.  One early poem was about a sunset (what else?) written in florid language, I suspect, but to my grandmother it was a sign of genius.  She had the time to listen and admire.  I recall sitting with her on a window seat, summer sounds of tennis in the background, as I read my sunset poem to her.  She was the perfect audience.  Much later, I wrote First Success – it’s like a photograph in words of these few remembered minutes in my grandmother’s company.

Can you stand on one leg, pat your head and rub your tummy at the same time?

Yes, but it’s not easy, especially as I grow older.

What inspired you to become a poet?

I can’t think of any one thing that inspired me to become a poet, just a love of words, I imagine.  (See Full House).  As a child I liked both the sound and the look of new words.  I used to pester my grandfather to open the dictionary, (a fat red, somewhat dog-eared volume) and choose a word, ‘Any word you like, Grandpa,’ and ask me what it meant.  It was one of my favourite games.  What Grandpa thought of it is not recorded!  And of course, I was an avid reader.  In what is left of my teenage diary I read, 'When I grow up, more than anything, I want to be an author'.

Which is your favourite animal?

My favourite animal is, without doubt, a cat.  I love their independence, their trust, their elegance.  I have written lots of cat-poems.

How many poems have you written?

I honestly don’t know how many poems I’ve written, certainly well into the hundreds.  Although I began writing poetry for adults, much of my current work is written for children.  Why?  For one thing, children’s poems pay better – there’s a much greater chance of having them published.  And for another, it’s part of my work as a poet-in-schools.  Not much use asking children to write poetry if I’m not prepared to have a go myself!  And the children make an excellent audience.  I love reading my poems to them.  They listen well and are almost always interested.  They ask unexpected and thoughtful questions that really make you think.  My most recent book for adults is called This Year, Next Year, (Marvin Katz Press, 2004).  It is a collection of poems in memory of my husband Allen, who died two years ago.

Are you frightened of spiders?

No.  Spiders are fun and my cats like chasing them.

Where was your first poem published?

My first poem, Rosie, was published in a magazine called South West Review.  Unfortunately, like many other small presses, it is no longer in publication.  My first poems for children were published by Bell & Hyman in A Calendar of Poems chosen by Wes Magee.

How long does it take you to write a poem?

There is no true answer to this question.  A poem takes as long as it takes to write.  Sometimes I might rough out two in a day.  At other times, I can still be struggling with a poem weeks or months later.  Sometimes they just don’t work at all, no matter what I do.  Often, if I have a problem, it’s best to stop and do something completely different.  It’s a funny thing, if I’ve been working on a poem and get stuck, my brain seems to worry away all on its own and suddenly – like magic – the right word pops up into my head.  The magic doesn’t happen, however, unless I have already put in some hard work on the poem.

Do you have an all-time favourite poem?

Probably Something Told The Wild Geese, by Rachel Field would be my first choice for a rhyming poem – a perfect 16-liner.  It’s a straightforward description of migration with a spooky other-world feel about it.  I can’t read it without a shiver.  For a non-rhyming poem I’d choose Norman MacCaig’s November Night, Edinburgh.  It opens with an incredible image, 'The night tinkles like ice in glasses' …   a line I wish I’d written.

Which are your favourite biscuits?

I don’t often eat biscuits, except when in I’m working in a school.  There’s nothing to beat a plain biscuit and a cup of black coffee at first break – especially if I’ve had to leave home before 8 o’clock to get there.

Do you illustrate your own work?

No. On the whole, publishers discourage writers even offering suggestions about how their poems and stories should be illustrated.

Do you write your poems with a pen, or do you use a computer?

I never write with a pen, unless I’m miles away from my computer.  Even then I can’t wait to see my words on the screen.  The pattern of the poem means a lot to me, so I work best on my word-processor and can see how my poem will look on the page.

What is your favourite word and why?

It used to be ineffable because it was such an unlikely word.  I don’t think I’ve ever used it in a poem.  I tend to use a lot of colour words in my writing, so I guess these are my favourites.

If you had not become a poet, which job do you think you would be doing now?

Well, I’m really a teacher, a teacher who happens to write.  I was a head teacher in a primary school outside Bristol when I first started writing ‘for real’.  I tell the story of how two of my Year 5 girls pushed me into writing for children.  We had asked the Y5’s to write about their visit to the sea, so Alison and Margaret arrived at my door at break-time and sternly suggested that I should write about it too.  I did - and the poem, Count Me Out, was the result.

Do you have a favourite poet?

Brian Patten is my number one pin-up poet.

Do you have to be brainy to be a poet?

It’s not brains you need, it’s a love of words and ideas – and a great deal of hard graft.  (Oh, and a little bit of luck!)

Do you have any sensible or not-so-sensible advice for young poets?

Write something every day if you can.  Play with words.  Write about sad things (No ordinary day) and happy things, ordinary things and fantastic things.  Write about your family, (My Little Sister) your friends, your teachers, your pets.  Look closely at everything around you and listen to the things people say – then thread the these details into your poems.  (Poets are like magpies!)  

To quote Adrian Mitchell from his poem, But What Is Poetry?

          Poetry is one of the best ways

Of singing to the whole wide world

Or whispering in the ear of your best friend.

Think about this and you won’t go far wrong.  Write and enjoy!

To visit Moira's website click here