1.
Our First Kiss.
Under the big moon
I laid you down
On the soft cool ground
By the slow cold river,
And out of your mouth
Flew a thousand birds
Singing wild songs
To welcome the Spring.
Under the big moon
When I kissed your eyes
Golden wings
Grew out of our shoulders
To raise us rejoicing
High above clouds
Threatening to shadow
The new day in rain.
Under the big moon
We first became lovers,
The galaxies spinning
Like Sufi dancers
Floating their good souls
On the music of praise.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 13th. - 15th. 2016.
-----------------------------------
2.
Ornamental Tree.
Breaking through the grating
The tree, refusing to be tidy,
Refusing to obey the whims of
fashion,
The latest fetish of the gardener:
Has become a focal point for local
children,
A sort of Maypole, a totem, a marker,
An imagined Roman obelisk,
A living image of the resurrection,
A symbolic ornament to skip and
dance around
As they run amok through the tidy
square,
Upsetting new arrivals, disoriented
tourists,
Returning holidaymakers
with their luggage stacked on wheels.
Shoots breaking through the grating
This ornamental tree is breaking out
From the tight cocoon of stone the
planner sanctioned
To be it`s compact home,
It`s infant cradle and eventual tomb.
A granite cradle polished so it shines
Like black ice on a wintry afternoon,
Or like a crudely manufactured mirror
Reflecting all the rushing to and fro
In front of Kings Cross station.
But this tree is like the children who
adore it,
Or like the person I would wish to be,
A splash of life inside a concrete city
Breaking through the grating and the
walls,
Cracking up the tedious little rules.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 21st. - 22nd. - 23rd. May - July 15th. 2016.
When I heard that a new Open Space had been opened at Kings Cross by the then Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, I decided that I would like to visit this new public facility. The mayor had praised the project to the moon, giving the impression that a new Trafalgar Square had been plonked in front of the austere 19th. century terminus. What I found did not match this fulsome praise, in fact it resembled nothing more than a windswept concrete desert with a tube station taking up one corner. There were however the trees, not planted in the ground, but in long stone containers that looked like coffins for long dead giants. All these trees were severely manicured, no bulging roots, no branches out of place. One tree however was not doing what was expected of it. Stray shoots and bits of root were breaking through the grating on top of the stone cradle, little flourishes of natural life. Instantly I loved that tree, a little bit of bold life in a concrete graveyard.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
-
Colonel was a fawn Great Dane, docile but loud of bark. He was also as tall as a man when standing on his hind legs. He lived at the Duke of...
-
I need two strong hands to shape a poem, Shifting boulders of sound from rock face To flat ground. I need two stron...
-
Late summer morning glory, Sunlight saturating moist northern air So that I seem to peer through a billion tiny mirrors As I look towards yo...
No comments:
Post a Comment