Two Poems. (1). The Scurrilous Doppelganger. (2). Ritual. (A response to the raw and honest power of Shakespeare).

                 1.            

The Scurrilous Doppelganger.

I am not what I seem.
I am that raucous old boy with a thousand sons,
And ten thousand daughters,
All looking like me
But not one of them bearing my name.

I am that old scallywag in an ale house,
Who swings like a ghost from the wall lights
And is sick down the backyard drains.
Well known in many a churchyard,
Black cap discreetly doffed,
Sighs weary and softly wind borne:
The wreath clutched tight in my fingers
Is made from wheatsheaf and thorn.

I have run madcap over corn fields
To chase Red Admirals and girls,
Fierce dogs swung high on my coat tails.
I have cantered all night on wild piebalds
Around the mid summer camp fires
Loud with rumour and song.
And when the clock castanets a loud warning,
Leaped lightly out of the dormitory
To rejoice in a dazzle of dawn light
Having sired a cacophony of strangers.

No, I am not what I seem
When I stroll through the red brick suburbs
Nodding to the passing locals,
The retailer and the policeman.
I am all that their dreams would concoct
If the sun burst wild over crushed pillows,
And broke through the windows with singing.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 5th. 2014. - October 8th. 2014.

Written on Dylan Thomas Day.

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                    2.
                Ritual

My hair is as white as King Lear`s.
Should I now go raging
Across the wind torn Heath
To protest against mortality?
Common sense curtails this,
Or rather the fear
Of what my neighbours might say
If they noticed my indiscretions.

Life is a third rate comedy
Padded out with inane rituals
Designed to appease propriety.
Lord Titus understood this
When he slaughtered dumb Lavinia
To redress her anguish and shame.
A raped girl was rarely pitied
On the ruthless streets of Rome,
Where the weak were mocked and kicked,
Their frailties unforgiven.
It was better to die with honour
As her father`s pathetic offering
Thrown down in the face of the gods.

Thrown down like a bloodied challenge
In the face of insidious darkness
That was slowly eating his reason.
But Titus was old and world weary,
A devotee of a washed out idolatry,
Of custom now drained of all meaning
When, much like the wind blown Lear,
Without warning he dropped his guard
To fall,an outmoded puppet,
On the pyre of his final victim.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 3rd. - 4th. 2014.

A meditation on two of Shakespeare`s darkest plays at a time when armed conflicts, civil strife and uncertainty are endemic in formerly stable parts of the world.