1.
Storm Damage.
I did not know the winds were strong enough.
The tree lay stretched across the road,
Blocking the tarmacked entrance
To the landscaped cemetery.
The weight of four hundred stately years
furrowed into the blackness.
This reminded me of that dead Roe Deer
I had observed with a coarse, outraged excitement
One misspent August Bank Holiday
half a lifetime ago,
Nature seemed then a barbaric province to me
And suave dreams of urban decadence
Had sanitised my nickle plated world view.
Remembering the torso broken in many places,
The long black tongue festering in the mud,
I walked quickly by, kicking at the red leaves
like a small boy rejecting his favourite toy,
For no apparent reason
Except, perhaps, that human love seemed fallible
And could not mitigate his savage grief.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 6th. - 7th. 2016.
In Memoriam Dan Coffey, a fallen oak.
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2.
At Belsize Park.
A solitary girl inside the carriage.
A closed book dropped without much care.
A pressed carnation half on view.
Somewhere a cold wind blowing.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 23rd. 2016.
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3.
A Letter to Allen Ginsburg, Too Late for him to Read.
(Written in response to Allen`s poem, Homage to Vajracarya).
Allen
you found the sun and moon on your plate
One red hot morning in India
And sat bold upright in wonder.
Allen, this sort of thing rarely happens to me,
But then I am not naive.
I am very un-American
And I just don`t have cosmic visions at the
breakfast table,
Especially when I am late for the Thameslink train,
Or the tube to Covent Garden.
In fact I am very like the Han Chinese,
Practical to my boot laces,
But with a taste for Earl Grey Tea.
However I do still read your poems from
time to time
To catch a view through seismic cracks and visions.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 23rd. - April 7th.- 8th. 2016.
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