(1) Girls at a Salford bus Stop.revised version (2) The Eternal Round-a-bout. (3) Love Is Not What We Do.

               1.

Girls at a Salford Bus Stop.(Revised Version).

Where on Earth have they gone to
Those teenagers waiting in line
for the Saturday morning trolley?
Waiting dumb struck, quiet as dead

mice.  There they were, close by the
factory gate,  Sitting in line high up on
the red brick wall  Like a row of broken
bottles,  Waiting for the Artist to sketch

them,  Or a schoolboy to throw a stone.
Where on Earth have they gone to
Now that the painting is done,  Framed
and on public display, as their white knees

were  That long ago Saturday morning
Before the boyfriends came to call
And the infants kicked up a fuss?  Perhaps
they have been put out to grass,  Like so

many of their generation,  Now that their
era has passed.  Or perhaps they have simply de-
camped  To the elegant charms of Southport,
Where they now wait in line for tea.  Or maybe

like the cat eyed Artist,  Who stood with his note -
book and pen,  Observing their every movement,
Have long since chucked out their glad rags
And dropped off their clogs         in the dust.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 30th. - July 1st. - 7th. 2013.
Recalling some quirky paintings by Lowry. 

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                  2

The Eternal Round-a-bout.


Love drops in like a Sky Diver
First there were no roses
Now there are a million
All things changed in an instant
Just like you and me Babe
First we were
Then we were not
And now here we go again


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
26th. June 2013. 
--------------------------------

              3.

Love Is Not What We Do.


Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
to become what we were
Before what we are
And so go round again,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are.

I should`nt repeat myself
Or I might be packed up on the
shelf                              but
To remind you while I remain,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Now let me explain
Before we melt away
And vanish down the drain,
Love is everything
That we live and do
and is good and true
About me and you,
And so, to go round again,
It is all that we are and do,
Not what we were.

So far                       So good,
                  All this seems true,
but when there is no more love
What can we do?
It will mean goodbye to me
And also goodbye to you;
So let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
And do not come back again
As me and you,
Or indeed as what we were,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are,

So good                    So far

tra la.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
3rd. - 7th. March 2013.

(A) Greek Midsummer Solstice.Revised Version. (B) The Rite of Spring.

                   (A).

Greek Midsummer Solstice. (Revised Version).

             1

After the rain
The earth is black as blood
Drawn from a dead Calf.

The Goddess Aphrodite,
Born of the dank earth
And not from the sea
As the Ancient Greeks
Would have us believe,
Is herself dark as
The Calf`s blood.

We sacrifice our selves
Totally
To her fierce deity
Without a thought,
Without a care.
Our bodies intertwined
Tightly together
In the still house
Like children stung by dreams.
We sleep fitfully
Afeared of the crescent moon
That hangs in the June sky
Like a sickle;

Or a flint knife lifted high 
over a sacred altar.

            2.

The Roman Gods are routed;
Diana turns aside,
Emphatically defeated;
Mars discards his armour,
His sword is pitted with rust.
Aphrodite now assumes
All their ancient powers,
Their sacred arts and symbols.
She sorts them with due ceremony
To neatly pack away
In her Shoulder Bag of tricks.

            3.

The cool rain has returned,
Hiding the sharp faced moon
Behind a curtain of torn silk.
In the dark we become aware
Of the cruel smile of the Goddess,
A smile that she rarely shows
Except when the moon is black.-
We snuggle up tightly together,
Caught in our mutual dependence,
The dark gift of the Goddess.
We snuggle up tightly together
To welcome sleep.

A sleep bereft of dreams.
The quiet sleep of the just.

Outside the tethered calves
Low softly in their pens.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 15th.-19th.-20th.- 21st.  2013.
February 23rd. 2014.
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                (B)

The Rite of Spring. 


Dance ugly
Give your education the boot
Be yourselves
Spit in the eye of the critics
Don`t give a damn
Dance ugly
And love it
Love it all the way to the archives

 People don`t believe you
When you dance ugly
They think you are lying
Making them look like fools
Gargoyles
They think you cannot dance at all
They think you are just thrashing in air
Meaninglessly
Trashing the heirlooms of reason
Idiotically
Like mythologised Vandals
Goths
When really you are forcing
Deep  Deep  Deep
Right into the heart of all things
The rock drill of intelligence
The diamond edge of truth

What is truth?
Pilate asked that question
But never got the answer,
It was just too easy for him,
Sacrifice was a masculine issue,
Nothing to do with the feminine,
Resurrection was not in his remit.

Dance ugly
Be true to yourselves
Thrust your fierceness into my face
Open up the jungle
The battles of life and death
Reality

Show us what we are


Trevor john Karsavin Potter
May 26th. 2013. 

(1) Recollections of an Old Dancer (Revised).(2).Shadow Play: The Ballerena Replies.

(For Zoe Smith, 1950 - 2011, who never was a dancer,
but, perhaps, should have been).


                   1.

Recollections of an Old Dancer.(Revised Version).


The doctors were wrong.
That old problem has not crippled me.
I could have continued dancing.
But now I can barely think about those times,
The hours in Class;
Those hard won Terpsichorean movements
When we were partners, collaborators,
Before that faulty diagnoses
Fractured our relationship, (forever)?

You were my White Swan,
My Cinderella, my Snow Maiden,
The girl who melted away at the start of summer,
                  Only to return to haunt me
When those sudden winds, announcing the onset
of autumn, Rattled the window panes
And scurried fallen leaves along the pavements.

You remained with me for most of that winter,
A white kitten lodged in our tenement apartment;
The coal fire, that seldom warmed the grate,
Flickering red lights deep down in your eyes;
My enigmatic friend, my Snegurochka,
Pale Cinders with her besom and ancient scuttle;
Fraught scion of Les Saisons Russe,
Pale as ivory, fresh ice on the Neva.

And then you were gone.

The moment that I ceased to dance
You deserted me; waltzing out of the apartment
Into the frosty night, the enveloping shadows;
A filigree figure dissolving,         like the sleet,
That shifted the bolted shutters.
I was devastated, a Pierrot dashed into several
tiny pieces,        My dreams cut dead by reality.
               
So please now tell me, where did you flounce off to?
How did you escape the vigilant paparazzi,
The boys on the five star bikes?

Did you Troika deep into Siberian forests;
Or sail to the edge of Antarctica,
The albatross haunted seas?
Did you circle the face of the moon?
Tip toe on the North Pole of Mars?
You had often promised yourself such trips
In our volatile moments together.

You always hated hotels.
Declined to visit your friends.
You left no letter, no clue to your intentions,
Not even an old publicity shot
Designed to enchant your fans.
No remnant that I could decipher.

But now, in this bleak December,
A decade, or more, after your disaffection,
I am daily pestered by rumours of your returning,
A face, like yours, ghosting the edge of a mirror,
A guarded whisper discerned in a darkened theatre,
A shadow darting silently out of a crowd;
A discarded glove:

A newspaper cutting drifting upon the wind;
Dogs barking in the back yards;
A crystal shoe dropped down an empty stairwell;
Strange noises late at night;       a shimmer of ice.

So now I sit and wait, diligent with expectation,
For the tap of your footsteps crossing the patio,
Your willowy figure,         at ease in the unlit hallway
Poised to confront me                        en pointe.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
December 30th. 2010. - June 14th. 2013.
Revised July 31st. 2013.
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                         3

Shadow Play: The Ballerena Replies. 


Hooked to no fixed strata
                   No ticking time
Unchecked I visit various orbits
In one quick conscious day,
Not marching, as you, clockwork towards your moon
But in free space suspended, juggling fates,
Times, perspectives
                   Until clear patterns shape.
As to you, your blindness appals me,
Commuting through flecks of experience
One point in mind,
                   Scared to unmask and review
           The intricate complex of suns.
Yet, though separated by distances, by depths
and shadings immeasurable
Our challenging voices scan
To receive appropriate token;

                   By this we are defined?


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 1965.
Written in The One Tun Goodge Street, when it was at the heart of the London Scene.

(1) Poet in Suburban Extremis. (2) Early Morning Walk.

                   1.

Poet in Suburban Extremis. 


The jagged wound is healed,
The raw skin sealed,
And in a poem
I myself revealed.

There was no poetry in our so called love.
You wanted a house, a car, a radio, a fridge;
Someone to dig the garden, pay the mortgage,
Keep your body clear of that irksome itch
As you lay supine in the bath, pretending to be rich.

But life just aint like that my lie low babe,
When it cometh to terse reality, you never made the grade;
You brandished self respect like a junkie`s razor blade.

love hurts,
We all know this must be true,
But the stark intensity of love
Never cut through to you.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 15th. 2012. - April 3rd. 2013.

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                      2.

       Early Morning Walk.


This morning I watched the sunrise
A pearl in an indigo sky
A blank of silent water
Denuded of ships

A solitary bird sang in the hedgerow
Pining for a long lost mate
Another lonely traveller

Hands stuffed in woollen gloves
I walked towards the cash point
That emblem of insecurities
More feared than a broken phone

I looked up at the new found pearl
And wondered how soon it would burn
A large hole in my pocket


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
June 4th. 2013.
The pearl often represents purity in medieval poetry. 

See Blog Page for July 3rd. 2015 for rewrite of this poem.