1.
Recollections of Christmas in Fermanagh.
There are few bright colours here;
The sky, pallid as a cheap shroud
Wet with a mother`s tears,
And torn by her frenzied fingers.
The sun, a Discalced Carmelite`s face
Observed behind a lattice.
At Easter time, old folk remark
That melancholy Angels chant
Strange wordless hymns on holy nights
Inside the locked cathedral;
The Golgotha carved above the door,
Lost in a cloud of lilies.
The coppice of gaunt lakeside trees
Sway ghostlike in the evening mist
As daylight drains away,
They stretch their gnarled and twisted arms
Like children begging for stale bread
From pampered strangers.
This Christmas Eve in damp Fermanagh
The silky clouds are scudding high
Out of a slate horizon.
The homeless man crouched in the market
Counts loose change into his glove
Then slips into his cardboard bed.
He feels the raw wind cut his cheekbone,
He burrows down, just like a mole, and in
a moment falls asleep.
Soon the whole town is counting sheep
While the Angels guard the silent streets.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. 2014. - March 19th. - 21st. 2016.
This poem is a companion piece to Christmas Eve - Fermanagh that I am here republishing because they should be read together.
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2.
Christmas Eve - Fermanagh.
There are no bright colours here -
The sky - pale as a shroud
Soaked in tears -
The sun - a dim white eye
Half closed among vast clouds.
The bone thin winter trees
Reach up like gnarled hands
Pleading -
Old saints desperate in prayer
Their faith undying -
Their epoch slowly fading.-
A blank horizon pressing down
Onto an ancient landscape
Haunted by a thin pale moon.
The hills are full of ghosts
Dumb echoes of time past -
Dark tales of abject poverty -
Clouds spread wide like canvas sails
That once drove famine ships.
Awaiting their congregations
The grey stone village churches
Stand like border forts -
Gaunt symbols of partition.-
I was not born here -
But I might as well have been.-
I am at home in a frontier landscape
Where nothing is fixed or certain.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. - 31st. 2014. - January 2nd. - May 21st. 2015. - March 19th. 2016.
Belcoo - Enniskillen - London.
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3.
This Easter.
This Easter is losing Christ,
It is all about St. Pearse,
St. Connolly, St. Collins,
And all the other martyrs
Who dared not turn the cheek
And died in tragic wars.
I shall make no comment on this,
Only mention while I may
That Golgotha has become a daily
scandal
With crosses overshadowing every
street;
Dead infants mocked by soldiers
taking snapshots;
Great cultures torn apart
By bombs that fall on mosques and
ancient churches;
The shrines of Roman gods.
I once raised high the Tricolour for Ireland
But now I simply want to dream
of peace
And place the troubles at the barren altar
And pray for some respite.
So please let us forget the savage past,
And sit at table with our foreign neighbours
To share the feast of love.
And oh yes, I must forgive old Micheal Collins
For teaching the whole world the arts of terror.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 21st. 2016.
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4.
Explaining Why I wrote "This Easter"
I am criticising my own deep commitment to Irish Nationalism here, because I am nowadays aware how dangerous nationalism can be. It is a fine cultural ideal, but should be isolated from political violence.I have always deeply admired Michael Collins, and I was brought up knowing some of his relatives, but I am all too aware of how his fighting methods have been adopted and adapted by other less savoury individuals fighting for less honorable causes. I really do believe that "Jaw jaw is better than war war", that people should talk and not commence the journey down the road of extreme violence. Once a war has been started it is always very difficult to end it, and the end is never certain. The tragedy that is Syria, plus the toxic international repercussions, makes this all too clear. The Irish stand against British rule was entirely justified, and the men and women in the GPO in 1916 were great heroes, but the hundredth anniversary of the uprising will be on April 24th. 2016 not March 28th. I think that Jesus, Man of Peace, should be properly honored, and not have his most important festival overshadowed by national celebrations at this time when Europe is in danger of following the Middle East into the quagmire of violent political turmoil.
The day after I wrote the poem, and a few short hours after I set down this prose piece, came the news of the terrorist bomb attacks in Brussels. I rest my case.
22nd. March 2016.
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