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[Poetry page 1] [Poetry page 2] [Poetry Page 3] [Poetry page 4]
[poetry page 5] [poetry page 6]
Featured poets Clies Stevens, Louise James, Ronnie Goodyear, Penny Lally, Peter Hambly, Rachel McKluskey, Les Merton
The following poems and prose are by Cornish Poet CLIES Stevens, (pronounced as read) Clies has had articles published in the magazine Cornish world*. Next up is Louise James
the celebrated Hedge Witch of St Ives Cornwall and then we have Ronnie Goodyear poet from 'The Lizard'.
*Which we also subscribe to at Genius Loci
Dreamtime at last by Clies Stevens
The sun was hot and so were we
So we sat down to rest, just us three
The insects buzzed softly and barney dog grumbled
Finnegan looked superior as usual
The view was stupendous and light bent around us
The dreamtime came gently to hold in its call
We three Cavelieros
The mist was warm and soft and took us across
The eons of time
To a land before mine was here
Welcome smiles greeted us by gentle folk who shook my hand with a grip of iron
I smelt the smell of a land being made, I smelt the tribe of the Celt
The smell of peat, of the forge and furze
Of bread baking on open iron
And clay pot making in the kiln
Cattle lowing and children talking a language I did not know
Dogs barking where they mine?
No.
White clouds and blue sky where shall I fly in my dreamtime again
This is my land, given by my fathers fathers father,
He who was the first of my line
And gave the sign
of the black red beaked bird
Who stands proud on red legs
And looks for the tribe who carries his image
Such were my dreams
Such are my dreams
I am so lucky
To have such plucky
four legged friends
who care not for comment about my dreams
just the dish content!
Dogs are sleeping now, see!
Twitch and whimper, whisker flick and claw click
In front of the fire.
Do they dream as I do?
Have you heard the sound the moonlight makes by CLIES STEVENS
Have you heard the sound the moonlight makes
As it flows across our sacred land
Have you seen the ripples of the light
Playing for us in the land of our heart
Watch as the word spreads from low to high
All creatures are watching as it makes the precious sound!
And what is this sound that the moonlight makes?
Listen for it is the sound of the inner you
From your soul to the call of the nature all around
Stay stranger and listen!
There! The mouse rustle the rabbit thumps
The fox pads and badger grunts
Earthworm turns and beetle clicks
This is the sound the world makes as it ticks
The moonlight makes no sound as it flows across the darkling land,
It sparkles on the dark wave and spreads its holy light to all in this happy band
Have you heard the sound the moonlight makes as it flows across the land?
It rustles the grass and the corn
And stirs wet sea sand
The sound is soft and free
And sweet to me
Stay stranger and see
The sound the moonlight makes as it flows across the land!
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Hustle rustle by CLIES STEVENS
Hustle rustle, moonlight shade and grass move
White of fang and stealth of foot
Death moves on the land while the rabbit plays
Frosty breathe and gleam of eye
Stealthy now and sly
Brown coat gleams in moonlight shadow
Careful foot follows foot as moves are took
Rabbit playing unaware
Fox is for tonight’s warm fare
Seeking hot blood and tender meat
Squeal and scream the deed is complete
HUSTLE RUSTLE, MOONLIGHT SHADE AND GRASS MOVE
Grey fur in moonlight shade marks the lonely grave.
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And is it like this in the homeland Mother?
Is the grass so green and the sky so big?
And is the sea so blue in the homeland Mother,
The land where our fathers rest,
Resting in the grave ‘neath the granite cross
Looking forever to the far horizon.
And is the earth like this in the homeland Mother?
So brown and so rich, where the earth fed us all before we were born.
And is it like this in the homeland Mother?
Do they still weep for those who are no more?
Shall I weep for them now Mother,
Shall I weep for you as you rest in the sweet brown earth?
But no Mother, I shall weep no more.
For where you rest shall the homeland be,
A piece of Cornwall forever!
In the time when you were young Mother,
Before you left for this land,
Did our boats lie down on the golden sand?
Do the Gulls scream here Mother like they do in the other land?
Is the sky so big
Is the grass so green?
And did father love us like you did before you were gone.
And is he with you now to hold your hand,
To lead you into love in that golden land?
I hope so Mother, back to the Homeland.
I shall not weep for you Mother, you do not need my tears.
You are going to that other land you sang of,
And brought the stories from
That land of mist, myth and magic
And crashing swell,
Rolling moor
And you.
You are going home my Mother,
To the homeland of love!
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This is Cornwall by CLIES STEVENS
I sat here trying to think of a title for this piece of unashamedly heartfelt bit of prose about the land I love so deeply, and I found I could not come up with a single thing! This is my land, and this is the land my forbears passed on to me to love, cherish and tell others about.
You do not need to be an artist, poet, or druid to see the beauty in my land. When I have gone and prime ministers and parliaments have gone or perished, it will still be here waiting for those who love the land.
My land is my country, a country of never ending contrasts. Buzzards fly and keen their cry; gulls stand forlorn looking on wet glistening beaches.
Surf can crash and roar and play the bullyboy or can be like the caress of a lovely mistress out to please. The gold and bronze of the wild moor, grey blond of the granite and the sibilant whisper of the wind through the ferns.
Stand alone above the works of man, and see the busy tourist speed down the road. Stand-alone and feel the call from the land, the heart of the country I love. This is Cornwall the country the land and the people, the timeless majesty that enthralls and instills in the soul a peace unknown to those who live and work in the city. The folk from those places come here to gain some of that inner feeling, to recharge if they can the careworn and bruised life energy.
Christmas week I was down on the beach complete with two dogs, dowager Sue walking sedately by my side, and free spirit Finnegan greeting heedlessly everyone in site. I saw a lone woman walking in the wind and at the same instant so did Finn. He shot off to say hello and I groaned inwardly. He was racing across the sand towards her like only a greyhound can, intent on having some fun.
However it was okay, the lady was down from London to spend Christmas with friends, then to return to her work in a hospital. With Finn galloping around and cavorting between us and Sue pushing with her nose at us both for attention, we had a sort of conversation and parted. Finn had spotted a patch of sand that needed a scratching and some new people arriving on the beach to show off to. Well we left the beach that blustery pre Christmas afternoon, and I filed the day away along side the others in my head. Christmas was enjoyably spent in the home with my lady, and with me on the outside of some very nice whisky thank you! New year came and January had us all in its grip, then we had that magical spell of incredible weather, and I was once again enjoying the antics of Finnegan on the beach.
He suddenly stopped and looking down the beach (Greyhounds have incredible eyesight) I watched his muscle bound haunches bunch up and he was off, tearing up Carbis bay beach at an incredible rate. In the distance I could see a lone figure arms outspread to the wind and sun, it was the lady from the hospital again.
She had returned to recharge herself again from the care and tear of inner city life. So you see, we all love this magic land of ours, each in our own way. Myself, well I dreamt of the soft rain and mist when I worked in Namibia, while the people I had left behind me took it all for granted. It was there for them every day you see, and in that sameness they relaxed and did the ‘DRECLEY’ thing, the particular unexplainable thing we Cornish are so good at.
(Cornish dictionary: - DRECLEY. (n) Similar to Manyana but not in such a hurry as manyana)
I envied them at times, especially when I worked the high copper mines in Peru amongst all that devastation of open cast mining and bandits. I would dream of the times when, returning home I would long for the first sight of the far side of the Tamar.
I would hang out of the window as the train crossed the Albert Bridge; dodging the bits of ironwork Isombard Kingdom Brunel had so cleverly placed there to catch the unwary Cornishman.
I could see others doing the same thing, waiting for the train to finally grind its way to Home. Suddenly the grass was greener, the very air softer and sweet to the senses, the old familiar sights bringing wet eyes again. They would take the restaurant car off at Plymouth but all like-minded Cornishmen I had prepared for this with emergency supplies in brown bottles! On those days, I have heard them singing songs like
‘White rose’ ‘Lamorna’ ‘Camborne ‘ill’ and ‘white stockings white stockings she wore.’ I tell you ‘Et edn no bad thing to b’long to this country of ours! Ess some ansome country!
I spent a couple of seasons on the winter mackerel from Newlyn, and fished alongside other men from St.Ives. This was the good years before the big trawlers ruined the whole thing for the hook and line men. But I got to now Jabus Perkins, and he had a saying for the town, he loved it so greatly you see. He would say,
"When we were youngsters we never did SEE the town you naw, but now as weme older I tell thee boy tes the most ansomest place in the world."
He never did want to travel much and was supremely happy in his chosen way of life, surrounded by his family.
If only we could all see " the most ansomest place in the world" as he did. I feel we could all walk with pride in the sun again.
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POEMS BY LOUISE JAMES
THE CELEBRATED HEDGE WITCH OF ST.IVES
The Rose is a symbol of love and faith
With petals of velvet which embraces the dew
Rocking gently in the breeze
Head held high
So majestic in life
It catches your eye
You hold bated breath
So delicate yet so very pure
The look of love so true
Pluck me hold me to your breast
The Rose says,
I’ll do the rest
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WONDERS OF NATURE BY LOUISE James
Looking out of my window what do I really see?
Lives that are busy, bustling Oh! So very carefree
Little birds who work so hard, bringing up their young
Insects, spiders going about their work
‘Til each day is done
Nature is so wonderful it’s happening
All the time
Why is there such destruction
By this very race of mine?
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Cornwall is a lovely place
To live here is just divine
The cliffs are high and mighty
The sea just rages on
It’s also so mysterious
As many people know
It guards so many secrets
Or so I have been told
Don’t ever trust the sea they say!
Treat it with great respect
Many people lose their lives
Because of their neglect
To be a Cornish person
To live in it’s fair place
You’ll never move from Cornwall
Never with any great haste
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Her clothes were long and flowing
Her eyes dark and glowing
Across the darkened skies she raced
Broomstick going steady paced
Cackled laugh, wily screams
Interrupting cosy dreams
Where is she going, where has she been
Never by day is she ever seen!
Rings and things is what she wears
Crew cut style for her hair
On her head a large black hat
Purring soundly, her pussy cat
Witchy lou is her name
Love of life is her gain
Help on hand if ever needed
But beware if ever scorned!
So be heard.
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I couldn’t believe what I saw
As I went strolling across the moor!
Old bent men in pointed hats
Women in black with massive black cats
A large grey rock was by my side
With pounding heart I ran to hide
The sky went black it started to rain
Oh my! There goes that sound again.
Behind the rock I peered around
To see what’s happening to the sound
A face looked up and spotted me
I turned to run I’ve got to flee
Then all of sudden I saw a light
I must have been asleep all night
The people I saw was just a dream
I’m sure it was real, or so it seemed
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I was awoken in the night
There I saw a wonderful sight
Dancing in the light of the moon
Six little fairies were singing a tune
Come out come out and play with us
Come as you are, don’t make a fuss
We come each night to play with you
With blonde haired girls,
We know there’s two!
Up and down the moon we slide
Over the moon we jump and stride
Little windows we peep and see
Tired eyed children sleep peacefully
Dawn is breaking its time to fly
Back to our crystals and bed to lie
Get some rest for another day
When we will come to take you to play
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THE BUMBLE BEE BY LOUISE JAMES
HAVE YOU EVER WATCHED THE BUMBLE BEE
FLIT FROM FLOWER TO FLOWER?
I COULD WATCH THAT BUMBLE BEE
HOUR AFTER HOUR
HIS DOWNY BODY OF BLACK AND YELLOW
TO ME HE’S SUCH A DECENT FELLOW
HE WORKS SO HARD TO POLLINATE
SO FELLOW MAN FOR HEAVENS SAKE
DON’T SWAT THE LITTLE BUMBLE BEE
HE WORKS SO HARD FOR YOU AND ME
WHERE WOULD WE BE WITHOUT HIM
I JUST FEAR TO DREAD
THE FLOWERS WOULD DIE AND WITHER
NEVER RAISE THEIR COLOURFUL HEADS
WHEN YOU SEE THE BUMBLE BEE
JUST YOU STOP AND THINK
ITS ONE OF LIFE'S SMALL MIRACLES
DON’T MAKE THE BEE EXTINCT!
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Ghosts at Gunwalloe by Ronnie Goodyer
Here, the spectre of a rolling thunder-cloud fights a south-westerly crosswind
right on the grassed crest of Gunwalloe.
The coarse rush waves in the sand
alive with footprints of a million ancestors,
carrying the catch, hauling the boats,
life telling in the burden of their eyes.
I meet the cry of the tossed buzzard
arcing to a speck by the tiny church,
a watercolour microcosm of Kernow.
Sun traces rays behind the black sky
which wrap my thoughts in sparkling ribbons,
healing and refreshing, waiting to be lifted
by the wings of each gust from the downs.
The rock formations are shadows of soldiers
streaked with the sweat of sacrifice,
returning here to their secret dreams,
praying for rebirth in the storm’s wind.
Rooks return to the Goonhilly heath
as the rain sways in bending light,
refreshing the sea, clearing the air.
I can hear the voices of thanksgiving
echo between the breakers and the shore,
as, in the lea, orange lights the glow of home.
I keep the promise to all who walked here,
all who gave me this life and this hope,
as I witness the last sigh of spring
and open my heart to the birth of summer.
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See also our memories page for more inspirational writings
Back to Cornwall arts and culture from genius loci
