1.
The Gardener.
Blue Hyacinth for Mr. Thompson
who died last night
when the north wind skirled
in shrieking fits
that woke his wife
and smithereened the lattice porch
beneath his window.
A pompous man who, every Christmas,
sprinkled wine and words over seed trays
to invoke his dream of Easter, and then.
white chubby fingers working overtime,
stuffed spring bulbs into treacle tins
and gave them to his neighbours.
Blue Hyacinth for Mr. Thompson.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 4th. 1963. - July 29th. 2014.
====================
2.
The Cathedral.
Twilight over London
A red streak masked by a black thumb
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 20th. 2014.
Tuesday 29 July 2014
Friday 18 July 2014
Midnight Goddess. (First Version).
I lift your photograph off the shelf
with a nervous hand.
I should have smoothed back
that wild tangle of auburn
before I adjusted the close up lens
and flicked the shutter open.
I was tracing an icon of you
through diffused lighting
and muted greys and blues;
but an icon can never be more
than a simple mirror image
of what the camera sees.
An ephemeral abstraction
discretely articulated
in the briefest
breath of time.
Such beauty must remain
a piece of fiction,
a smudge that mars the surface
of a simple square of paper.
I study deep the fragile solitude
of startled, half closed eyes,
black in their hooded alcoves
of drear October shadow,
small elemental fragments
from the dark side of your moon.
And now I quietly wonder
as I lift the picture up
to kiss the faded outline of your lips,
If you can still recall the vows you
whispered
that long, myth laden night
of rain and thunder,
before you left my house that final time
to catch the early train.........................
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 1st. 2012. - July 18th. - 19th. 2014.
with a nervous hand.
I should have smoothed back
that wild tangle of auburn
before I adjusted the close up lens
and flicked the shutter open.
I was tracing an icon of you
through diffused lighting
and muted greys and blues;
but an icon can never be more
than a simple mirror image
of what the camera sees.
An ephemeral abstraction
discretely articulated
in the briefest
breath of time.
Such beauty must remain
a piece of fiction,
a smudge that mars the surface
of a simple square of paper.
I study deep the fragile solitude
of startled, half closed eyes,
black in their hooded alcoves
of drear October shadow,
small elemental fragments
from the dark side of your moon.
And now I quietly wonder
as I lift the picture up
to kiss the faded outline of your lips,
If you can still recall the vows you
whispered
that long, myth laden night
of rain and thunder,
before you left my house that final time
to catch the early train.........................
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 1st. 2012. - July 18th. - 19th. 2014.
Thursday 10 July 2014
Futility. (New Version).
I cut open the Gourd
to reveal a wasteland of seed
One thousand plants that shall never be grown
Ten thousand mouths that shall not be fed
A taut womb barren
but cursed by hope
Mothers crouched among the ruins of Gaza
Eyes bright with hunger
Lips black with pain
Ten thousand veiled faces
imploring the sun
Ten thousand scarred hands
lifted in prayer
The voice of Rachel shrieking in Ramah
The beauty of Iman calloused by gunfire
I cut open the Gourd
to expose the raw flesh
The skin is rough to my fingers like sandstone
The small oval seeds remind me of tears
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
July 10th. - 11th. - 14th. - 15th.2014.
This is a poem of protest, within the history of my family there are, and have been, Christians, Muslims and Jews. There are also secularists, and the family is mainly left wing or liberal in politics. I feel torn apart by the conflicts in the Middle East. The nations with the most efficient, brutal and powerful armies do not get my vote. It is the oppressed civilians I care about. The blood soaked children crying in the hospitals.
to reveal a wasteland of seed
One thousand plants that shall never be grown
Ten thousand mouths that shall not be fed
A taut womb barren
but cursed by hope
Mothers crouched among the ruins of Gaza
Eyes bright with hunger
Lips black with pain
Ten thousand veiled faces
imploring the sun
Ten thousand scarred hands
lifted in prayer
The voice of Rachel shrieking in Ramah
The beauty of Iman calloused by gunfire
I cut open the Gourd
to expose the raw flesh
The skin is rough to my fingers like sandstone
The small oval seeds remind me of tears
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
July 10th. - 11th. - 14th. - 15th.2014.
This is a poem of protest, within the history of my family there are, and have been, Christians, Muslims and Jews. There are also secularists, and the family is mainly left wing or liberal in politics. I feel torn apart by the conflicts in the Middle East. The nations with the most efficient, brutal and powerful armies do not get my vote. It is the oppressed civilians I care about. The blood soaked children crying in the hospitals.
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