Three Poems.(1) Beatrice and Benedict. (2) First Meeting. (3) Hallucinations of the Unicorn. (Revised).

                          1.

          Beatrice and Benedict.


Your name day has come round,
And your face shining, lit by an inner light
Even for me, your fiercest of enemies
Toying with murder in my cynical dreams.

But perhaps, although we care not, dare not admit this,
We are the dearest, the deepest, the firmest of friends,
Or perhaps, maybe even unequivocal lovers
Franchised by blood lust, the thrill of the hunt,
The tearing apart of our secret alliance,
The private anguish of an enforced separation.

This state of affairs we rarely admit
To friend, to foe, and especially ourselves;
We fear the raw edge of unendurable truth
Systematically cutting into the quick.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 16th. - 17th. 2015.

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                        2.

             First Meeting.


Stunned by the sweetness of your smile
My so obsessive rushing to and fro
Has instantly become irrelevant.
We are standing still, apart, quite motionless,
Captivated by an awkward sense of wonder.

The stars this morning are (perhaps) auspicious:
Well, according to the astrologers I refer to,
Those with gaudy charts in Sunday Mags;
And being of a Quixotic disposition
I tend to by pass common sense reality.

The leaflets advertising life insurance
That I dropped the instant you swung wide the door
Remain scattered at my feet.
I shall not now retrieve them
But, enthralled by the sadness in your eyes
I enter the quiet house.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
20th. September 2012.
3rd. - 14th. February. - 11th. June 2015.

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                     3.

 Hallucinations of the Unicorn. (Revised).


Carbon sky

Pewter rain
Scratching traces in the wind
Drain pipes oozing autumn mud

Berliner luft
(The over loaded Trabbies wheezing)
An extra cold November morning

The hunched bird silent on the ledge
White plumage
Folding

The girl
Concealed by two large fans
Stands beside a curtained window
Weeping

Her dread of death entraps her here

She dreams
But thinks that she is seeing
Her pianoforte      madly     swinging
Upside down
From the grey apartment ceiling

Perhaps it will soon fall on her
Wide wings breaking
Too weak to hold it up in space

The Kakadu
Thrusts her small curvaceous beak
Deep into her moulting coat
Much like the fabled Pelican

A need to self harm cracks her nerve
She has no young to feed on blood

(A video of a unicorn
Playing non stop on the wall
Keeps at bay the urban shadows)

The girl
Stares at the Kreuzberg street
And suddenly screams out my name

Trevor     Trevor     Trevor     Trevor

I turn and watch her third floor window
Break into a storm of feathers



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 21st. - June 1st. - 3rd. - 7th.- 11th.- 17th. - 19th. 2015.

Written after visiting the Making traces exhibition at Tate Modern, where I became reaquainted with and enchanted by the work of Rebecca Horn.I was also thinking of my friend Britta who introduced me to Berliner luft.