New Day Form: Cornish Sonnet 3 Theme: Love Subject: Writing
What is nature’s beauty for As sunrise pierces the soul As my feet touch the cold floor At the dawn of a new day And another working goal Before the heart can then play Let my fingers dance on keys And let words fall into place So I may write like a breeze then embrace nature’s envoi What is the love of nature But to release the heart’s joy What is nature’s beauty for But to release the heart’s joy
Joe Ramshottom rented a bit of a farm From its owner, Squire Goslett his name; And the Gosletts came over with William the First, And found Ramsbottoms here when they came.
One day Joe were ploughing his three-acre field When the front of his plough hit a rock, And on closer inspection o’ t’ damage he found As the coulter had snapped wi’ the shock.
He’d got a spare coulter at home in his shed, But that were some distance away, And he reckoned by t’ time he had been there and back He’d have wasted best part of the day.
The accident ‘appened not far from the place Where the Squire had his sumptuous abode; He thought he might borrow a coulter from him, And save going back all that road.
He were going to ask… but he suddenly stopped, And he said ” Nay-I’d better not call; He might think it cheek I borrowed from him, I’d best get my own after all.”
He were going off back when he turned to himself And said “That’s a gormless idea; The land you were ploughing belongs to the Squire, It were ‘is rock as caused all this ‘ere!”
This ‘eartened Joe up, so he set off again, But he very soon stopped as before, And he said ‘Happen Squire’II have comp’ny to tea, Nay I’d, better go round to t’ back.
Then he answered himself in a manner quite stern And said “Here’s a nice how-de-do! You can manage without him when all’s said and done, And where would he be without you?”
Joe knew this were right and he knew it were just, But he didn’t seem happy somehow, So he said “Well, there’s no harm in paying a call, And I needn’t say owt about plough.”
This suggestion that he were afraid of the Squire Were most deeply resented by Joe; He said “Right! I’ll show you… I’ll go up at once, At the worst he can only say ‘No.”
Then he said “After all as I’ve done in the past He would have a nerve to decline; He ought to be thankful to give me his plough, Seein” damage his rock did to mine.
Then he said “Who is he To be puffed up wi’ pride, And behave as if he were King Dick He’s only a farmer the same as myself, As I’ll tell him an’ all- Jolly quick.”
Then he turned round and looked himself straight in the face, And he said “What you’re scared of beats me; Ramsbottoms was landlords when Gosletts was nowt, And it’s him should be working for thee!”
Then he said “I’m surprised at myself, so I am, To think I should so condescend As to come hat in hand to a feller like ‘im And ask if he’s owt he can lend.”
This argument brought him to Squire’s front door, It were open and Squire stood inside; He said “Hello, Joe… What brings thee right up here?” “You’ll know in a tick,” Joe replied.
He said “P’raps you think yourself better than me, Well, I’m telling you straight that you’re not And I don’t want your coulter… Your plough-or your farm, You can-do what you like with the lot.”
Marriott Edgar Born: 5 October 1880, Kirkcudbright, Scotland Nationality: English Died: 5 May 1951, Battle, East Sussex, England
Edgar was a poet, scriptwriter, and comedian. He is best known for the sixteen monologues written for Stanley Holloway, including the ‘Albert’ series
Maurice Jarre Film and TV Born: 13 September 1924, Lyon, France Nationality: French Died: 28 March 2009, California, USA
Jarre was a composer and conductor best known for his film scores, including Lawrence of Arabia and A Passage to India. Jarre received nine nominations for the Academy Awards, winning Best Original Score for Lawrence of Arabia in 1962, Doctor Zhivago in 1965, and A Passage to India in 1984. He is also the father of Jean-Michel Jarre
That dark lady I call my muse, Angel of art inside my head. My tears are shed as she sings blues, That dark lady I call my muse. Colours scheming in vibrant hues, each time I lay there in my bed. That dark lady I call my muse, Angel of art inside my head. Ideas float with static clues, That dark lady I call my muse, She brings them forth in words to use In pictures tonal views are read. That dark lady I call my muse, Angel of art inside my head.
She holds me tight in vice-like grip, yet tender is her sultry touch. In thought, imagination’s trip She holds me tight in vice like grip, from her chalice I gently sip, at first it all seems double Dutch She holds me tight in vice-like grip, yet tender is her sultry touch. As words and art meet my pen tip She holds me tight in vice-like grip, she guides the words that form on lip, the ink on paper now my crutch She holds me tight in vice-like grip, yet tender is her sultry touch.
That dark lady I call my muse, She holds me tight in vice-like grip, Eases the way that I confuse, That dark lady I call my muse. Images once lost, now diffuse and on paper they swiftly slip That dark lady I call my muse, She holds me tight in vice-like grip, no longer words can I excuse, That dark lady I call my muse, As I dwell in fantasies views I see I’m at her fingertip, The dark lady I called my muse, She holds me tight in vice-like grip
The year closes upon Samhain As summer days come to an end, The harvest field gathered in While mystery dances in the flame, A bard and lute pick a tune To tell the old stories once again.
The Celtic folk have gathered again Upon the eve of Samhain They hear the old soulful tune That says the hunter’s game must end Amid the glowing Pagan Flame As winter nights close in.
Deep memories, long held in Revealed to the heart again, In the dancing light of the flame, The old souls called at Samhain And like a dream that has no end They dance once more to a midnight tune.
The heart that hearkens to the tune And lets the spirit enter in Shall know the circle of life shall never end And all shall surely live again As the Lady calls upon Samhain For…