Two Contrasting Poems, (1) Maundy Thursday Night. (2) The A Word.

                         1.

              Maundy Thursday Night

Pitch black
The Hand of God resting over us
Shadowing the interior of the church
With an intensity of sorrow
That average grief cannot touch.

The candles flicker in the fierce gloom
Like sparks of winter starlight
Refracted through sheets of melting ice.
I shiver in the darkness
Feeling intensely lost, alone,
Although the silent church is crowded.

Scarcely breathing
The sombre congregation kneels in prayer
Before the stripped altar, the vacated Shrine,
I look to the bare wall where an icon
Is normally placed among fresh cut flowers,
And am struck by a searing pang of loss.

Today and yesterday and tomorrow
Come together in this single moment
That seems to exist outside linear time.
And for one short hour, opened wide to the eternal,
In another epoch in a much altered country, ,
Christ, who is for everyman, remains alone,
Trapped like a thief on the Mount of Olives
Under an implacable Pesach moon.

Traversing a distant rock filled valley
The traitor and guards are marching to claim him
For the whip, the Cross, the Crown of Thorns.
His ferocious cry of desolation,
Wild, like that of an injured animal,
Reverberates bleakly into our lives
Although we can barely imagine him.
A cry that could not anticipate
The enigma that is salvation.

Under the twisted olive boughs
Deaf to all prayer
His disciples remained locked in sleep
Like untroubled children.
We, in our blacked out London church
Commune with private thoughts and fears,
Feigning to believe that in our personal lives
We could be almost as brave as Christ,
A miracle that dare not happen.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
March 29th. 30th.  2013. 
April 16th. 2014.,

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                          2               

                   The A Word

You were my first honest transgression,
My first encounter with the A word,
The noun that I was taught not to mention,
At home, and certainly not at school,
My first dive into the ancient Labyrinth,
(Buried deep under the prim Assembly Hall)
With its strange conundrums, spectres, animals
And a chance of being eaten by something
                                                     nasty,
Something that resembled a Human Bull,
A vast, mock tragic, monument to power
Inviting us to visit his Hall of Mirrors
Where nothing is certain, and legends overawe
Our grip on common things, on day to day reality.

I was nineteen, you were nearly thirty five,
A married woman, your family in the States,
Two young children awaiting your return,
An old house in the country to keep tidy,
A husband rather good with his old rifle
Not keen at all on a younger Cockney rival;
A herd of deer and a dozen hunting dogs;
A meadow land of butterflies and frogs.
You kissed my body as though it were an
                                                        icon
Something rare and precious, rich and rare,
A Chinese Vase perhaps? A pot of weekend
                                                        goodies
Far better than those skins flown back from
                                                        Africa,
Fresh hides of Antelope, of Lion, Cheetah,
                                                        Tiger
To keep alive your adventure under the sun
Inside the dark museum of your memory,
That Labyrinth of passion, madness, fun,
  That held me in its thrall, we had a Ball,
      But alas the tears were copious
    When all had been said and done.

I had always considered myself to be less than ordinary,
You changed my mind about that, and now I am grateful.
You trained me for survival, made me sit down and write,
But alas you were not so lucky, you could find no way to
                                                                           resist
The pull of your inner night, the call of your jet black star.
Hope extinguished
You rushed straight into the arms of the waiting Minotaur,
He tossed you into the air,                  you fell and broke.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter 
March 26th. - 28th. 2013.

Two Poems. (1) To Someone Missed This Easter.(2) Jennie Reaching Out.

                               1.

          To Someone Missed This Easter.

I settle a spray of pink blossom into your favourite vase,
Then set it down gently onto the oval table
By the opened window.
Early bees fly in to inspect these delicate flowers
And explore the strangeness of the bright clean room.

I set the vase down like a totem of sorrows
Placed high upon an isolated hill
In a vast American forest.
A totem of flowers crafted to give new hope
To those who grieve and wait.

My hands trembled with joy and simple reverence,
But a deep tunnel of lonesomeness cuts through my heart.
The tranquil bees appear dark and ominous,
Loaded with prominent stings.
The curtains lift on a small discordance of wind.

This solitary act of remembrance I here set down
In a circle of morning sunlight
That seems as still as a mirror.
The pine wood seat you sat in that Good Friday
Now folded against the wall.

That was the first time that you flew overnight to meet me,
Travelling north eastward from your forest home
In the far off Catskill Mountains.
A simple gift of love, quiet expectations
Shown to me by your father.

Your first Atlantic flight, prologue to many, is now a scratched out dreamscape.
Today you are just that photograph, displayed on my computer;
A retrieved newspaper cutting
Conserved with certain letters:
A set of keys misplaced on the mantle shelf.

At half past 5 an unexpected downpour
Washes out the exuberance of the sun,
Turning my small world several shades of grey.
I sit alone and imagine I hear you knocking,
Knocking softly on the locked front door.

And suddenly the house is sunlit with laughing children
Absorbed in collective excitement. We escape your brood
Walking hand in hand, slowly together,
Into the flower packed garden
Ecstatic with wild honey bees.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 13th. - 18th. - 19th. 2013. 

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                           2. 

Jennie Reaching Out..

Taking off
She reaches for the moon
Like a child at play.

Decades later
In her kitchen
Cutting sandwiches for tea
She feels downgraded.
The balloon that she had once stretched out to tamper with
Burst with a kiss of cold air.

Nappies and screaming fits
Came as a complete surprise that nearly floored her,
Two hits straight out of the blue,
But were none the less made welcome.
The small ones at her elbow
Spinning her out of control
With their never ending neediness,
Their frenetic laughter and tears,
The sky high stories and lies. -
Tending their everyday wounds
She imagined a vocation for godliness.

But a man in a distant country
Refusing to come home
Is a different kind of story,
Something to keep mum about.
The cheques that kept bouncing along
Like fragile rubber balls
Barely in touch with the surface
Related the history of his caring
To a perfectly positioned Tee.
He was her man in the Harvest Moon
That Saturday night at the Party
In the grounds of the local Golf Club,
The fate that she should have turned down.

This is her Groundhog Night,
A forever repeating dream
That gnaws coldly into her memory.
She stands alone in the moonlight
In the hope of seeing his face
Looming out of the shadows.
Her arms stretched out to greet him
Becoming set hard with waiting,
Slowly transformed into ice.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter 
April 6th.- 21st. 2013. 

(1) Now and Then The Milkman.Revised Version. (2) Sad Poem.

                    1. 

Now and Then The Milkman. (Revised Version)


This morning the Milkman came
Humping bottles of memories of school days
To light up my pre - dawn blues
With armfuls of magic.-
Crate fulls of white joy horse drawn into
                                     the playground
Under a vermilion sky
To the rhythm of tambourine hooves.
Bottles of milk laid out in class room order
Perfect for birds to plunder
And infants to pick and choose.

And as I stooped down early to grab my share,
The crack of a knuckle hard into my face,
Harris, the Mafia boss of playground order,
Was already hard at work
Refining his natural trade,
Brute labour that went unpaid
From my store of pirate booty
That is, until this morning.

Today, at 9am, I paid off this former class mate
With a Co-op cheque in place of gold and silver
And a loud n cheery "How`s the Missus Mate?"
I watched him scuttle, crab like, down the pathway,
Then scramble sideways into his skew-whiff van
That shook like a broken carillon.

This van is stashed with unwashed empties,
A quorum of left over pints, frayed cardboard boxes,
Egg trays,- and trying to stay securely out of sight,                  
An unkempt school kid squatting in the cabin,
Slumped like a captive Squaw.
"His daughter feigning sick", a neighbour guesses,
And I nod in assent, but in truth, I am not so sure.
She has been labelled his model princess,
A starlet on hold, but a perfect horror at school,
Not even his actual kid, some say, but the child
                          of the Rocker next door:
Nothing pertaining to Harris is ever certain.

Later I shall make free with this his produce,
A scrunched up packet containing slips of cheese,
A see through plastic box crammed tight with eggs,
Two carton loads of soured history lessons.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
March 9th. - 15th.  April 17th. 2013.
Revised, March 29th. 2014. 

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                   2.

             Sad Poem.


When your Honey Child dies
And the cut flowers fade
In the vase placed by her bed,
It is said that a perfect world
                                crumbles.
And not only her world
But our universe dies
Like a light turned off at the wall.

Please tell me now, what is left over
To remind us of all that is lost,
Blanked out for a vacant forever?
Sadly, I can retrieve no answer,
Only this hushed feral wind
Scratching my locked back door.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 7th. 2013. 
For Anne, Violette and Sharon, with sadness and love.

Boston Lincolnshire May 1999.

The wild storm pours through space like a poultice
Curing the raw land with a coolness
That eases the shrivelled crops back into life
And awakens the dormant currents of the gnarled
                                     streams.
The trees reach up like hands grasping for rain,
(Desert hands beating back the sun burning dusty
                                     faces),
And the shrill cry of birds filters through the wind
As they shield their young with their wings.

Closeted in calmness, the congregation shelters in
                                     the church
Under the eye of the storm. Outside the sudden squalls
Twist the face of the Haven into a fierce torment
Of anguished grimness, a tidal fury of salt and foam.

Constructed before faith was questioned, the Gothic
                                        tower
Sways imperceptibly upon its deep foundations
Like a stunted sermon, a petition lopped, unfinished,
A Jesse tree with all the branches severed.
St Botolph formed this place, preaching upon a rock
Desert parables transferred to fertile Lincolnshire
Where houses built on sand are rare and strange;
And windmills, turning like prayer wheels, protect
                                  the fens.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 28th. - June 15th. 1999.