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Man In The Moon

 

Moira Andrew is an ex-primary teacher and Head teacher.  She was also a lecturer in education at Craigie College of Education and part-time tutor in Creative Writing at the University of Glamorgan. Now a fulltime freelance writer, she also enjoys tutoring small groups of poets.  She is an enthusiastic member of the Society of Authors. Much of her published work has been for primary teachers and children. Previous publications include ‘Light the blue touch paper’,

Iron Press, 1986 and 1989, ‘Fresh out out of Dragonflies’ Headlock Press, 1995, ‘This year, Next year’, Marvin Katz Press, 2004 and 2008, ‘Firebird’, Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2011 and ‘Wish a Wish’, Poetry Space 2012. Moira is secretary of the Falmouth Poetry Society.

 

 

Man In The Moon

 

Moira Andrew

 

ISBN 978-1-909357-37-2

 

Publication 01/03/2014

 

Poetry

 

216 x 138 mm

 

68 pages

 

£7.99 + P&P

 

 

 

ORDER HERE 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

grass-flat

Man in the moon

 

You cuddled me close last night –

arms swaddling me in sleep, radio

keeping us in touch with wars

and hurricanes and everyday disasters.

 

I so wanted to tell you

about my treacherous eyes,

but night got in the way

and you were more interested

in my breasts, the smell of my hair.

 

Maybe you were listening, maybe not –

the trouble is, I’ve lost my touch,

in fact I’m not entirely sure you lived,

I know you died – I was there.

 

My bare feet trawl the depths

of our bed, lust after you, chill –

(the cat doesn’t do love-ins)

dreams fade, you’re out of focus

words won’t work anymore –

 

there’s no arguing with a man from the moon.

 

 

 

 

 

Fishing

 

I landed you

in my net,

but in those days

I was lucky

 

ignored

wild waters

tumbling

round the rocks

 

unafraid

I made a grab for you

(couldn’t resist

that smile)

 

don’t suppose

I’ll ever get

a second chance

despite standing

 

thigh-deep

in another river

for hours

on end casting

 

my line

across still waters

waiting for

a Tuesday call

 

and a single splash

disturbs

the surface

of that black-silk pool

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The concern with failing eyesight that casts a shadow behind this collection seems only to have sharpened Moira Andrew’s observation.  

 

Agile in their shifting forms and rhythms, the poems have an unsentimental tenderness always underpinned by the passage of time.

 

They look back, as if surprised, at the ‘new old me’ who writes them, still possessed of a child’s fresh curiosity and a grown woman’s appetites.”

 

Philip Gross

 

 

 

 

‘Man In The Moon’ explores contemporary life, its joys and sorrows and the challenge of growing older.  The poems experiment with different styles and patterns on the page, but all have the clear voice of a female poet.

 

Dead man’s shoes

 

Knock-kneed, they wait

in the dust of the bottom shelf,

abandoned, almost forgotten.

 

They’ve waited at lights, urged

the old red Vauxhall into action,

accelerated, braked.

 

They’ve waited under beds

listening to the song of springs,

the murmuring of lovers.

 

They’ve waited for seven years,

unworn, unpolished, heart-

breaking as photographs,

 

the imprint of feet a memory

of the man, of miles walked,

of Cornish paths explored.

 

They wait, like patient dogs, for

the sound of his voice, disappointment

in each sagging lace.

 

 

 

 

Evil eye

 

crows are chasing

one-on-one

across the morning sky

for a moment

they pause

step with delicate feet

onto a thin branch

inching along

one to the other

malevolence

in each yellow stare

open beaks mouthing

black-winged curses

(too late for garlic)

as in the far distance

a baby lies in his cot

struggling for breath

no quarter from the birds

they’ve marked his card

bewitching

his final minutes

ready to escort him

where meteors roll

and doors are sealed

entry strictly forbidden

until the appointed hour

all in a day’s work

for the crows

who fly home

freewheeling

across white-winter fields

Last orders

 

It comes to all of us,

last spring,

   last sight of the moon,

       last words.

These days my last things

   are coming

       thick and fast.

 

My father photographed

a lone gull,

   all aggressive yellow bill,

       fierce round eye,

perched on the rail

of a Clyde steamer

on his final trip to Dunoon –

not that he knew it

   at the time.

 

My husband drove me

to Llandaff the day

   before he died,

       determined

to buy me an Easter present –

Gary Rhodes, Step-by-Step Cookery

I keep it on a shelf

   in the kitchen.

 

Eyes shutting down,

colours fading to grey,

   sharp edges misting,

       my poems

are disappearing

   like spectres glimmering

       in the night.

And I’ll have parked my car

   in the driveway

       for the last time.

 

 

 

 

Aftermath

 

after it’s over

we lie coiled

all-in-one

a dark talking-time

words tripping over

one another

in indulgent richness

and we laugh

at silly jokes

only we would understand

and my hair tickles your nose

so you sneeze

slip out of me

and our jigsaw pieces

unlock

into separate arms

and legs and toes

and we watch

an orange streetlight

felt-tip the edge

of our curtained window

and listen to the rain

till the cat reckons

it’s safe to jump

back on the bed

to burrow

into the narrow gap

of warmth

between us

 

 

 

9781909357372 Moira Andrew at Falmouth 2 9781909357372