Boudicca In A Grey Cardigan
A tribute to a very special lady.
Scarce five feet tall, she was Boudicca in a
Grey cardigan. Her wooden ruler – both staff and spear –
Recklessly waved over bowed heads, her voice firm and strong.
A voice for chapel, they said, to shake Satan from the eaves.
We children were no match for her and when she shouted
We held up desk lids to deflect her onslaught, and snatched at
Well-thumbed books, side glancing to confirm our choice.
She taught maths, with the rhythmic smack of the ruler counting
Numbers by rote. Each thump dented facts into our memory.
Literature was new to me and I swooned at the purr of words.
I feared her – I feared everything in those days – my faltering speech
Betrayed me. Shy outcast child, too hopeless to speak, hiding at the back.
Somehow she found a spark, fuelled it, spoke in a language new to me.
Freed my tongue from tripping, unbound my mind, showed me stars
Where dust once lay. Recounted stories and promised hope.
One term down, she read the results. I was second, moved from last.
Her eyes fixed on me and came the whisper: “you let a boy beat you,”
Second term, I was first. In a dusty classroom, murky windows, books with
cracked spines and missing pages. Chairs that scraped a splintered floor.
I found my heaven there, became a glutton for knowledge, made it home.
A poem that strikes a chord, Gee. It reminds me of my scholastic days when teachers were feared for their disciplinary attitudes but also respected for their commitment to education and encouraging pupils to improve.
Thank you Luigi. It was a little village school and she had taught there for many years so she was very respected by everyone there. She was an amazing lady and we stayed in touch long after I left school.
It just needs someone to lift that “dust” and the everything clicks into place. Where would we be without teachers like her? You’ve made a very good home for knowledge.
Thank you Bhi. Yes, she believed in me and that made me believe in myself. Thank you so much for your comment.
Oh, this is lovely, Gee. Oh to be back there again (but with wiser all the same) eh? I remember I had such a teacher. He was everything extreme: A vegetarian, a communist, an enthusiast for Esperanto, a scruff pot, but above all that he was a brilliant teacher who inspired me and others to sometimes think outside the box. There are teachers and there are teachers, I think your Boudicca in a grey cardigan, and my scruff pot, were born to it rather than taught it. Lovely trip down memory lane, your poem. Thank you for sharing and making… Read more »
Thank you, Allen. I’m not sure I’d want to be back there though.
Oh, your Scruff Pot sounds wonderful. My Boudicca was an amazing lady. When she retired, she travelled around the world and one of my most treasured possessions is a bracelet she brought back from Morocco for me. Our friendship outlasted school and I used to call to her house for tea and listen to her stories.
I’m glad you liked it and thank you for sharing your Scruff Pot too.
Gee x