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Poetry inspired by the Cornish landscape
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Featured poets Clies Stevens, Louise James, Ronnie Goodyear, Penny Lally, Peter Hambly, Rachel McKluskey, Les Merton
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More poems and prose from Ronnie Goodyer poet from
'The Lizard'
Former Celebrity Publisher, Manager, Ghost and Contract writer, now poet and book illustrator, Ronnie Goodyer has had hundreds of poems, sketches and articles published, including several as Featured Poet, appearances in galleries and exhibitions.
His work has been selected for numerous anthologies, including Peace In Our Time for the Red Cross, Dancing Through The Pain for Mind and Flowers On A Shoestring for the ONE-TO-ONE Children's Fund.
He appeared alongside classic poets from the past in the Poetry On The Buses project, his poem on public transport, posters and the resulting book (ISBN 1-903998-03-4).
He was one of only four poets chosen from the thousands in Dartmoor
National Park Authority's Moor Glimpses project for their major summer
exhibition Farming Dartmoor.
His artwork has appeared in a great many publications, including one Whitbread-nominated novel and he is working on various commissioned book-cover designs. Among his awards and accolades, he was runner-up in the 2002 'People' competition with an article on artist Lenkiewicz; Robooth Publications Open Poet Of The Year 2001; four-times winner of the Eclipse Poetry magazine readers' choice 2001/2002/2003; winner of 'Flora Day' poetry competition 2002; bluechrome publishing Poet Of The Year 2003 and winner of Cherrybite Publications Open Poetry Competition June 2003, Coffee House Poetry July 2003, Eclipse poets choice, Aug/Sept 2003.
His major influence is the isolation of The Lizard where he, simply breathing the air of ancestors.
This June by Ronnie Goodyer
This June, with the shadows so black
and welcoming under the still gorse,
and leaning trees, we walked the hill
to Carn Barges, paused to rest and
sit breathless together on the slope.
The sun had melted the green under
foot, so it slid to the rocks at Carn Scathe,
diffusing to a silver sea, blue only visible
against the nearest cliffs, still and solid.
Stretched by the flowered sea-pinks, the
lighthouse of Tater-Du was painted oils
in the watercolour view.
We picnicked on the wild cliffs of Porthcurno, the bees
droning like a far motorway and the sweet
smell of fresh hay from a hidden farm.
Upward again to Boscowan Point's summit,
where our laughter broke the silence and fell
to the suntrap coves of Paynter and St Loy,
held in the sub-tropical leaves and fronds.
This day, this June, like no other before it.
Men Scryfa by Ronnie Goodyer
From sacred
waist-high green to the stone.
The granite pillar with long shadows
linking Celto-British to the present
for Ryalvran, the Royal Raven,
son of the Glorious Prince,
who saw death sweep from the west.
Men Scryfa, stone of writing,
the word outliving the sword.
Across the Greens by Ronnie Goodyer
Across the greens and orange-golds
you would lead and I would follow;
Boswen's Common's footprint tracks,
to the ridge of far Bosullow.
Trencrom Hill
You couldn't make it to Trencrom Hill in spring.
Instead you set your easel by the Old Carn
and caught the sliver of darkening sea by its
western slope, the orange that held shadow
circles in its enveloping petals and the soft
azure blue of a hypnotic and permanent sky.
That winter you were near its base again,
seeing the hill as a misted grey, five layers
of background deep, with indistinct outline.
Your focus was the golden glint on bare willow,
framing the rectangular bottom edge, leading
the eye perfectly to the backward-leaning
green-brown lines of the field.
Cornish hedges appeared as thin black lines separating four
meadows of four greens, the granite farm
hiding by a stark winter copse. Captured on
canvass now, this landscape view across
Trevethoe Barton to Trencrom's misty heights.
On the next day of bright winter, you were
persuaded to climb with me. I led you through
the bracken to the holy well, secure, inspiring
and then upward to the stone-pillared gateway.
On smooth rounded boulders, we sat to watch
the birth of clouds and felt the energy flow from
St Michael's Mount, through Trencrom and out
towards
This was not a place to paint.
It was a place to breathe. A good place to breathe.
You asked me to write the day onto a page. I agreed
– but only after the day's scents had started to drift,
only after time had finally abandoned us and the long winter
sunset slowly darkened into familiar night.
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