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About
The Author
Roy Gaveston Knight was born in Nottingham in 1921
and moved to Kenilworth, Warwickshire, at around three years of age, when
his late father founded a garage
business in the town. Surrounded by rural beauty
he developed a love for all things natural, while at the
same time being drawn towards a lifetime's devotion
to God. He scholarshipped to Myton at ten years old..first poems
were published in the Courier at fifteen.
In those early days of scholarship,
school certificate and matriculation, the muse seemed to find swift inspiration
in a lovely country environment. His first poems were published in the
Leamington Spa Courier when 15 years old. Ordained in 1945, after
5 years ‘before the mast’, he set to work on first, ‘Quiet Verse’, and
then a trilogy of Warwickshire anthologies, when the three Lords of the
County kindly wrote the forewords…all sold out completely.
Commissioned later to write welcomes for the Royal Patrons who opened the
Royal Show at Stoneleigh, these appearing in several weeklies and journals...is
to the Queen, Queen Mother, Prince Charles…he has since been known as ‘The
Warwickshire Poet’. Hundreds of miscellaneous verses followed over the
years in all those sources, and he has been successful in many Eisteddfodau,
including one National.
Now in retirement (?) the muse
is still fresh and vibrant winning more recently 4 prizes in America in
the I.S.P. conference, Washington DC, in 1995, and since in open competition.
In that year ‘Blithe Musings’ appeared, the first of 6 known as
‘The
Arcadian Collection"…and he now has 2 anthologies of American roving
verses published with illustrations
"It appears I am in direct line to
William Shakespeare, through his illegitimate son by one Mary Knight, who
named him John Knight. Each eldest son of succeeding generation being
called John, my late Grandfather John Knight, tailor and draper of Stratford-on-Avon
and Kenilworth, being the 6th or 7th in line," says
Roy.
Being born a naturalist, and by academy
a philosopher and historian, Roy’s work is never short of material, and
he is glad to join in this new effort to bring a poem or two before the
reading public once again.
"I hope to see a renaissance of
classical poetry…and of the other spoiled arts in the new millennium,"
he says.
The poems on this site are drawn from Wagon Trails
1 and Wagon Trails 2 each a collection of 70 poems and 20 illustrations
inspired by Roy's visit to America in 1995 to collect the International
Poets Prize.
While there he decided to take a quick jaunt across
40-odd states and the muse within him was sparked into recording every
sight, place, creature and wonder.
But Roy is best known, and loved for his ability to
preserve for posterity the ways and times of our rural and rustic heritage.
Through the Arcadian collection consisting of 5 volumes of poetry (with
60 - 90 poems and 20 0r 30 illustrations in each), he takes the reader
on a journey through early 20th century Britain, explores hill and vale,
hedgerow and river with the occaaaional ye olde village thrown in for good
measure. Equally at home with the country bumkin as the Lord of the
Manor, he has preserved for posterity and the reader something we will
all be the lesser without.
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The
Happy Heart.
Glad of the morning,
Glad of its light,
Happy heart feared not that
Dark-ridden night;
Life full of meaning
Strides into day,
Thankful for everything
Forging the way.
Glad for new moments,
Glad for clean air,
Happy heart relishing
Plain wholesome fare;
Covetting nothing
Outside its lot,
Digging and planting to
Put in the pot;
Busy with needles,
Cottons and wool,
Clothing a tiny one..
No duty dull..
Happy heart grateful
For sturdy health,
Valued essentially
Higher than wealth.
Glad of kind company,
Trustworthy friends,
Glad for each benefit
Our Father sends;
Life full of meaning
Fills up its hours,
Finding sweet joys in life's
Large endless powers.
Glad of each morning,
Glad for its light,
Making the homestead so
Hearty and bright;
Out of the sunshine
Into cold rain,
Smiling and certain he'll
Come back again..
Happy heart..happy
Because life requites
Humble and earnest with
Fourfold delights.
Roys Collections of peotry and illustartions include
Each of these books will soon have a page on this
site. They are available in ebook format by download or on disc.
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The
Prairie Schooner's Fame
Where are those canvass-covered schooners,
Heroes of long prairie trails..?
These raw, proud homes on wheels for many,
Who have left such startling tales;
To south and westward urged wild rumours
Drawing them to warmer climes,
Free lands awaiting those with courage,
In past pioneering times.
Romantic..crazily romantic,
Water barrels strapped each side,
Possessed of little Earthly treasure..
Hundreds made it, hundreds died!
There was a Conestoga wagon,
Stronger on steep, craggy slopes,
But careful handling, patient thinking,
Kept alive a trailman's hopes;
Strong horses must be rested often,
Shod betimes and handsome fed,
Surely was that creature guided,
Eyes all on the way ahead.
Out there was wilderness unfriendly,
Sly coyote packs around,
Now slowed by accident and peril,
Desert storm and rocky ground.
Guns oiled, slick primed, and at the ready,
Little sleep till journey's end,
Known tribes, if hostile, well avoided..
Sixth sense was their greatest friend!
New babies born with crudest knowledge,
As young greenhorns roughed it through,
Tough, Oh! Tough these proved as leather,
Trusting what they heard was true.
Brass suns would crack those canvass covers,
Winds rip through a chilly night,
Then, hearts praising, came great mornings
Filled with flooding golden light;
Grand are such epics of adventure
Told in annals of the West,
But of those sturdy prairie schooners,
High their fame among the best.
The
Old Clapboard Chapel.
In those early days they built
a clapboard Chapel on a
hillside, painted white,
it was the centre of their hopes
..a place of calm.
Here a Gospel free from hampering,
poured joy on all converted,
as they plied themselves to
labour on each newly fenced
out farm. And they kept one
day in seven for the worship
of their Saviour, realising
in obedience this was healthy
benefit; Such clear rendering
of praises in the daily round
and duty..with that
gladness on their features..who
could doubt the gain of it!
There are one or two remaining
from that time of brave
endeavour, gleaming still
in silent witness of the power
such worship gives, for much
hardship drew them closer
and their Chapel life the
linchpin of a fellowship real
loving, which in Christ still
bravely lives.
We are more sophisticated,
self-reliant as we progress,
yes..we're modern..we have
growing power in clever robot
slaves; But the human heart
is hungry for, as then, the
'Bread of Heaven', thus 'tis
wonderful to know today the
truth that Jesus saves.
Ah! There was a warm attraction
to each homely clapboard
Chapel, and we owe so much to
these who prayed and brought
God's blessings here; For
adherents who remember, there
is empathy nostalgic,
deeply fragrant, with discipleship
in sterling yesteryear.
In
The Echo Meadows.
By fortress walls that settle coldly
in an afternoon of fog,
A snaking, baiting, loathsome misery
drawn from surrounding bog,
He made his call..alike a stag defiant
of the rising groan
Across his sharp attack, again,
again! To which that absent strength
So feebly sent reply, so that, displeased,
the lad turned off at length.
Nor had he vision of a former might
and grandeur, leaving me
Disturbed and saddened, stood alone;
a janitor without a key
To all this helpless pile; its broken
crown and staring, sightless eyes
In creeper's web; its nook and cranny
but the home of shrunken flies
Above a rampart-stand of weathered
rock. Oh! how undone..how dead!
A shell of toppled glory evanescent
in this marshy dread..
And I, aware of greatness, could
not hold it back nor lend it arms.
But then, above space, the lad sent
fresh his volley of alarms,
When clear form out this pot of
mist came back, alert, a warrior's calls!
So shrill and close they rang, and
peal on peal across those straightened walls,
That I imagined bowmen stood beyond
the swirling mystery
Full ready..banners suddenly with
evening pressure, flutt'ring free.
The heat of men drave back and forth
that greedy mist, while-ever lent
His schoolboy barrage measures of
embarrassing encouragement
To quick their ancient bones! And
if anon they shot, as schoolboys must
In every age, the pride of Kenilworth
will raise them from their dust
To guard her hour and heritage;
which nobleness itself betrays
Within the memory of passing time..those
former grander, royal and glorious days.
The Wile That It Took
Proud huntsmen swept by, for the pack was now
leading
Away in full cry..
A Boxing Day outing for all of high breeding,
Old county..and fly!
Their prey way ahead and, clear borne, a horn
sounding
She still was in sight,
With thirty odd dogs, nicely nourished, then
pounding
Away to the right.
A mile to their eastward lay cool reynard,
hiding
Until she ran in,
The vixen affording a jolly good riding,
And rollicking din!
But doubled she down to the valley and bracken,
To make for her earth,
When reynard shot forward the pace didn't
slacken,
Nor yet the hunt mirth!
For there now, the horn spoke, a kill would
soon follow..
How womenfolk squealed..!
But this was so foolish..that fox left his
hollow
To race straight upfield,
Spread hounds, quite bewildered, could not
match his running,
Yet still would he show..
A simple dog fox..mad! (Or full of wild cunning!)
The hunt well below.
And upward and upward, those fatter dogs,
panting,
Soon lost his strong scent,
For reynard, the object of all the crass ranting,
Had topped this ascent
And turned him to westward along a rough heather,
To vanish from sight..
With fuming, when gathered a creaking of leather
In failing daylight!
"We've lost him..!" The Master, bespattered
and sweating,
Now showed his gold teeth..
While those who saw little, but had a fair
wetting,
Still dragged up the heath.
A little while later that vulpine, returning,
Drank deep at the brook,
Admiring himself in a calm of discerning,
The wile that it took!
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