1.
To J M the D T`s, ie, Victimized by a Fashion Queen.
Blue hair,
Those orange eyes
Tigerish, Open;
Curving lips seethe through the suburbs
Like Smoke.
Jack Frost
Supersedes Not
Your Sharpness: Nor can
Quick ore burn deeper than your
Silences.
You turn,
I follow. You glance
Hypnotic Curses through me
Making ME perform YOUR Measures,
Spin Until I fall.
But soon
The strings will SNAP
Beneath YOUR Fingers,
Jangling notes in your brain`s
Museum:
Then I`ll DANCE..................
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 14th. 1968. Slightly revised January 8th. 1973.
--------------------------------------------
2.
Fatal Secrets.
Consigned to anonymity
The skeleton of King Richard the Third -
A wrecked oak lying in the undergrowth
The top hacked through by a crude axe
Branches snagged
Caught in the foetid marsh
The last leaf fallen
Even now
The final question has not been ventured -
The most important information
Lodged in the Mortician`s Pending Tray
His little black box -
We need to know what happened in The Tower
That sultry summer evening
But so far no one has blabbed
Leaning forward to stare into the vortex
The heroic patience of the Archaeologists
Certainly impresses
Keeps us on our toes -
But the harsh light of forensic technology
Has yet to guide us closer to the truth
Or laser open an unexpected clue
Crouched beside the tangled hedgerow
That masks the ruined oak tree
I watch a single Kestrel swoop and glide
High above the edge of Bosworth Field -
No other signs of life disrupt the landscape
Irk the mist drenched morning
Except perhaps a slight breeze smudged by woodsmoke
Nudging some nearby thorns
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
12th. - 13th. August 2013.
Sunday, 18 August 2013
Tuesday, 13 August 2013
Anne. (Revised Version).
1
Anne,
These photographs do you no justice,
They are the evidence for the prosecution
With no defence allowed.
A scribble of black and white lies
Disrupting a blank surface.
They mock you with their lack of colour,
Lack of life.
They are the smoke that rises out of dry ice;
Ashes cold and brittle.
2
There is no sense of you permitted.
No tangible presence. No true Anne
Revealed, printed on this yellowing paper
Designed to fade, to fall apart, become dust.
One Album hoarding a lifetime in snapshots,
Each image besmirched with a layer of gloss
Now split and cracked like a shattered window.
3
Your truth is not locked in this Photograph Album,
Entombed in implacable black and white.
Not the dance of your eyes; not your voice;
Not the raw young fire of your body;
That catastrophe known as your mind.
These photographs fabricate uncertain epitaphs,
Simplistic memos chalked on a slate.
4
Your kisses tasted of Gauloises,
And sometimes of whiskey and gin.
Your laugh leaped out of the darkness
Scorching the East London night.
Your fingers danced in my open hand
Like a troupe of feral Gypsies.
You teased me with your poetry,
Cracking down on my conventional dreams.
5
Anne, You fracked the mould;
Hijacked my heart;
Kick started my gung - ho high life;
Showed me the ways of the world.
These prints do not compliment memory,
They can only make certain my grief.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
5th. - 6th. - 13th. - 14th.- 31st. August 2013.
(Dedicated to A S, my long lost friend).
Anne,
These photographs do you no justice,
They are the evidence for the prosecution
With no defence allowed.
A scribble of black and white lies
Disrupting a blank surface.
They mock you with their lack of colour,
Lack of life.
They are the smoke that rises out of dry ice;
Ashes cold and brittle.
2
There is no sense of you permitted.
No tangible presence. No true Anne
Revealed, printed on this yellowing paper
Designed to fade, to fall apart, become dust.
One Album hoarding a lifetime in snapshots,
Each image besmirched with a layer of gloss
Now split and cracked like a shattered window.
3
Your truth is not locked in this Photograph Album,
Entombed in implacable black and white.
Not the dance of your eyes; not your voice;
Not the raw young fire of your body;
That catastrophe known as your mind.
These photographs fabricate uncertain epitaphs,
Simplistic memos chalked on a slate.
4
Your kisses tasted of Gauloises,
And sometimes of whiskey and gin.
Your laugh leaped out of the darkness
Scorching the East London night.
Your fingers danced in my open hand
Like a troupe of feral Gypsies.
You teased me with your poetry,
Cracking down on my conventional dreams.
5
Anne, You fracked the mould;
Hijacked my heart;
Kick started my gung - ho high life;
Showed me the ways of the world.
These prints do not compliment memory,
They can only make certain my grief.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
5th. - 6th. - 13th. - 14th.- 31st. August 2013.
(Dedicated to A S, my long lost friend).
Friday, 2 August 2013
(1) Moon. (2) The Pianist. (Revised Version).
1.
Moon.
The Moon and I are pals.
She rests in the branches of my apple tree
Like a white fruit;
An Arctic Owl,
Her hooded eyes the texture of raw shale,
Her smile a curved shadow,
Her laugh is silent.
In her presence I keep no secret.
My transgression starkly exposed
Under the spotlight.
The surgeon`s hatchet honed.
I have sensed her forensic gaze skewer me as I sleep;
Slicing into my dream world
Like twin diamond points
Polished to kill.
But she commits no murder this time,
She is merely a cool observer,
A non judgemental spy. -
My lover watches the Moon for half the night,
But she is not an expert astronomer.
I have been a rover more years than I dare remember;
Living from moment to moment,
From hour to hour;
Grasping unlikely luck with both strong hands.
The Moon, as ever, the only reliable witness,
Impaled in the old apple tree,
Unable to alter her view point;
Unable to find her tongue.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 12th. - 28th. - 29th. 2013.
Opening two lines only, September 1971.
----------------------------------------------------
2.
The Pianist. (Revised Version).
You play every note right
But do not touch my heart
The soul lives in the gaps
Between the plunging octaves
Haunts the empty spaces
The sudden depths of silence
You play every note right
But never get the point
The beauty of life is found within
our everyday mistakes
So please pack up the sheet music
Before you come to bed
You have played every note right
Staccato rhythms knock me dead
But if truth were told Miss Horowitz
Your style is a touch too smart
I had rather get you in the raw
Than refined by Liszt and Bach
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 2nd. - 3rd. - 4th. 2013.
April 23rd. 2015.
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
(1) The Destruction of a Simple Man. (2) Stages of Cruelty.
1.
The Destruction of a Simple Man.
The empty space on the Gallery wall;
A hole in the heart;
A world of tears.
The thief was a pyromaniac;
He danced in fire.
His need to burn the painting
Killed the artist
With the strike of a single match.
The kidnapped painting,
Cut out, transported,
Pressed flat inside a suitcase
Half a year,
Suddenly revealed to the midday sun
A new darkness, a pile of ash;
A lost child;
A question mark
Scratched on the wall of time.
(The suitcase was preserved,
even cherished,
For the thief it had some purpose,
some meaning;
It could be used until worn out
Like a raincoat, a pair of sturdy Brogues).
It should be noted
The thief was a practical man,
His priorities simple;
Not to be caught in the act;
Not to face The Beak;
Not to go down for decades.
Self preservation his only mantra,
His hour had not yet come.
He could not sell the painting
But he had to save his skin,
Preserve his aching joints.
Even Hitler knew much better:
He razed the Cathedral at Coventry
To clarify one or two points;
The eradication of rock hard history;
The nihilism of naked power.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 30th. - 31st. - June 1st. - July 16th. - September 3rd. 2013.
-------------------------------------------------------------
2.
Stages of Cruelty.
Under the cats paw
The grey mouse shrieks
Under the Vets needle
Moggy falls asleep
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 2nd. 2013.
The Destruction of a Simple Man.
The empty space on the Gallery wall;
A hole in the heart;
A world of tears.
The thief was a pyromaniac;
He danced in fire.
His need to burn the painting
Killed the artist
With the strike of a single match.
The kidnapped painting,
Cut out, transported,
Pressed flat inside a suitcase
Half a year,
Suddenly revealed to the midday sun
A new darkness, a pile of ash;
A lost child;
A question mark
Scratched on the wall of time.
(The suitcase was preserved,
even cherished,
For the thief it had some purpose,
some meaning;
It could be used until worn out
Like a raincoat, a pair of sturdy Brogues).
It should be noted
The thief was a practical man,
His priorities simple;
Not to be caught in the act;
Not to face The Beak;
Not to go down for decades.
Self preservation his only mantra,
His hour had not yet come.
He could not sell the painting
But he had to save his skin,
Preserve his aching joints.
Even Hitler knew much better:
He razed the Cathedral at Coventry
To clarify one or two points;
The eradication of rock hard history;
The nihilism of naked power.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 30th. - 31st. - June 1st. - July 16th. - September 3rd. 2013.
-------------------------------------------------------------
2.
Stages of Cruelty.
Under the cats paw
The grey mouse shrieks
Under the Vets needle
Moggy falls asleep
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 2nd. 2013.
Monday, 8 July 2013
(1).Pastoral. (2). The Kill.
1.
Pastoral.
The rabbit listens, and
Hearing no sharp sounds,
No thrashings in air,
Moves deftly, swiftly
With no trick, no fear,
Into the wind flecked lace
Of the meadow;
He savours the cold spring morning;
The sobs of the streams are music to his ears;
His leaps and runs barely shake the grasses.
Suddenly he stops, half startled,
Alert, but not yet afraid.
He sits stock still, a grey stone;
His heart now fiercely racing,
His dark eyes fixed, intent.
The distant farmhouse seems to be asleep.
The distant lane dips empty between trees.
The distant sheep bunch silent in their field.
Poised in the mouth of the wind
On wings as still as ice
The fierce hawk hangs.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 7th. 1967. - January 13th. 1972. - July 8th. 2013.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2.
The Kill.
Deep in the moonlit valley
All life is hushed;
Nothing stirs, nothing wakens,
Only the quiet breathing
Of the wind.
Like a scalpel a rodent`s cry
Rips open the womb of night.-
Wing beats thrusting upward
Crush the wild sound.
Scratched on air a living shadow
The young hawk soars
Riding the breath of the wind:-
For a moment the wood is alive
With a hundred thousand voices
Shrieking alarm.
A dark shape cuts the pocked face
Of the dumb cold moon
Then drops out of sight........
For a time the danger has passed.
The panic subsides.
Slowly the raw wound closes.
Trevor John karsavin Potter.
June 4th. 1974. - June 27th. - July 8th. 2013.
Pastoral.
The rabbit listens, and
Hearing no sharp sounds,
No thrashings in air,
Moves deftly, swiftly
With no trick, no fear,
Into the wind flecked lace
Of the meadow;
He savours the cold spring morning;
The sobs of the streams are music to his ears;
His leaps and runs barely shake the grasses.
Suddenly he stops, half startled,
Alert, but not yet afraid.
He sits stock still, a grey stone;
His heart now fiercely racing,
His dark eyes fixed, intent.
The distant farmhouse seems to be asleep.
The distant lane dips empty between trees.
The distant sheep bunch silent in their field.
Poised in the mouth of the wind
On wings as still as ice
The fierce hawk hangs.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 7th. 1967. - January 13th. 1972. - July 8th. 2013.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2.
The Kill.
Deep in the moonlit valley
All life is hushed;
Nothing stirs, nothing wakens,
Only the quiet breathing
Of the wind.
Like a scalpel a rodent`s cry
Rips open the womb of night.-
Wing beats thrusting upward
Crush the wild sound.
Scratched on air a living shadow
The young hawk soars
Riding the breath of the wind:-
For a moment the wood is alive
With a hundred thousand voices
Shrieking alarm.
A dark shape cuts the pocked face
Of the dumb cold moon
Then drops out of sight........
For a time the danger has passed.
The panic subsides.
Slowly the raw wound closes.
Trevor John karsavin Potter.
June 4th. 1974. - June 27th. - July 8th. 2013.
Thursday, 27 June 2013
(1) Girls at a Salford bus Stop.revised version (2) The Eternal Round-a-bout. (3) Love Is Not What We Do.
1.
Girls at a Salford Bus Stop.(Revised Version).
Where on Earth have they gone to
Those teenagers waiting in line
for the Saturday morning trolley?
Waiting dumb struck, quiet as dead
mice. There they were, close by the
factory gate, Sitting in line high up on
the red brick wall Like a row of broken
bottles, Waiting for the Artist to sketch
them, Or a schoolboy to throw a stone.
Where on Earth have they gone to
Now that the painting is done, Framed
and on public display, as their white knees
were That long ago Saturday morning
Before the boyfriends came to call
And the infants kicked up a fuss? Perhaps
they have been put out to grass, Like so
many of their generation, Now that their
era has passed. Or perhaps they have simply de-
camped To the elegant charms of Southport,
Where they now wait in line for tea. Or maybe
like the cat eyed Artist, Who stood with his note -
book and pen, Observing their every movement,
Have long since chucked out their glad rags
And dropped off their clogs in the dust.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 30th. - July 1st. - 7th. 2013.
Recalling some quirky paintings by Lowry.
----------------------------------------
2
The Eternal Round-a-bout.
Love drops in like a Sky Diver
First there were no roses
Now there are a million
All things changed in an instant
Just like you and me Babe
First we were
Then we were not
And now here we go again
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
26th. June 2013.
--------------------------------
3.
Love Is Not What We Do.
Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
to become what we were
Before what we are
And so go round again,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are.
I should`nt repeat myself
Or I might be packed up on the
shelf but
To remind you while I remain,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Now let me explain
Before we melt away
And vanish down the drain,
Love is everything
That we live and do
and is good and true
About me and you,
And so, to go round again,
It is all that we are and do,
Not what we were.
So far So good,
All this seems true,
but when there is no more love
What can we do?
It will mean goodbye to me
And also goodbye to you;
So let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
And do not come back again
As me and you,
Or indeed as what we were,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are,
So good So far
tra la.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
3rd. - 7th. March 2013.
Girls at a Salford Bus Stop.(Revised Version).
Where on Earth have they gone to
Those teenagers waiting in line
for the Saturday morning trolley?
Waiting dumb struck, quiet as dead
mice. There they were, close by the
factory gate, Sitting in line high up on
the red brick wall Like a row of broken
bottles, Waiting for the Artist to sketch
them, Or a schoolboy to throw a stone.
Where on Earth have they gone to
Now that the painting is done, Framed
and on public display, as their white knees
were That long ago Saturday morning
Before the boyfriends came to call
And the infants kicked up a fuss? Perhaps
they have been put out to grass, Like so
many of their generation, Now that their
era has passed. Or perhaps they have simply de-
camped To the elegant charms of Southport,
Where they now wait in line for tea. Or maybe
like the cat eyed Artist, Who stood with his note -
book and pen, Observing their every movement,
Have long since chucked out their glad rags
And dropped off their clogs in the dust.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 30th. - July 1st. - 7th. 2013.
Recalling some quirky paintings by Lowry.
----------------------------------------
2
The Eternal Round-a-bout.
Love drops in like a Sky Diver
First there were no roses
Now there are a million
All things changed in an instant
Just like you and me Babe
First we were
Then we were not
And now here we go again
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
26th. June 2013.
--------------------------------
3.
Love Is Not What We Do.
Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
to become what we were
Before what we are
And so go round again,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are.
I should`nt repeat myself
Or I might be packed up on the
shelf but
To remind you while I remain,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Now let me explain
Before we melt away
And vanish down the drain,
Love is everything
That we live and do
and is good and true
About me and you,
And so, to go round again,
It is all that we are and do,
Not what we were.
So far So good,
All this seems true,
but when there is no more love
What can we do?
It will mean goodbye to me
And also goodbye to you;
So let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
And do not come back again
As me and you,
Or indeed as what we were,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are,
So good So far
tra la.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
3rd. - 7th. March 2013.
Thursday, 20 June 2013
(A) Greek Midsummer Solstice.Revised Version. (B) The Rite of Spring.
(A).
Greek Midsummer Solstice. (Revised Version).
1
After the rain
The earth is black as blood
Drawn from a dead Calf.
The Goddess Aphrodite,
Born of the dank earth
And not from the sea
As the Ancient Greeks
Would have us believe,
Is herself dark as
The Calf`s blood.
We sacrifice our selves
Totally
To her fierce deity
Without a thought,
Without a care.
Our bodies intertwined
Tightly together
In the still house
Like children stung by dreams.
We sleep fitfully
Afeared of the crescent moon
That hangs in the June sky
Like a sickle;
Or a flint knife lifted high
over a sacred altar.
2.
The Roman Gods are routed;
Diana turns aside,
Emphatically defeated;
Mars discards his armour,
His sword is pitted with rust.
Aphrodite now assumes
All their ancient powers,
Their sacred arts and symbols.
She sorts them with due ceremony
To neatly pack away
In her Shoulder Bag of tricks.
3.
The cool rain has returned,
Hiding the sharp faced moon
Behind a curtain of torn silk.
In the dark we become aware
Of the cruel smile of the Goddess,
A smile that she rarely shows
Except when the moon is black.-
We snuggle up tightly together,
Caught in our mutual dependence,
The dark gift of the Goddess.
We snuggle up tightly together
To welcome sleep.
A sleep bereft of dreams.
The quiet sleep of the just.
Outside the tethered calves
Low softly in their pens.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 15th.-19th.-20th.- 21st. 2013.
February 23rd. 2014.
--------------------------------------
(B)
The Rite of Spring.
Dance ugly
Give your education the boot
Be yourselves
Spit in the eye of the critics
Don`t give a damn
Dance ugly
And love it
Love it all the way to the archives
People don`t believe you
When you dance ugly
They think you are lying
Making them look like fools
Gargoyles
They think you cannot dance at all
They think you are just thrashing in air
Meaninglessly
Trashing the heirlooms of reason
Idiotically
Like mythologised Vandals
Goths
When really you are forcing
Deep Deep Deep
Right into the heart of all things
The rock drill of intelligence
The diamond edge of truth
What is truth?
Pilate asked that question
But never got the answer,
It was just too easy for him,
Sacrifice was a masculine issue,
Nothing to do with the feminine,
Resurrection was not in his remit.
Dance ugly
Be true to yourselves
Thrust your fierceness into my face
Open up the jungle
The battles of life and death
Reality
Show us what we are
Trevor john Karsavin Potter
May 26th. 2013.
Greek Midsummer Solstice. (Revised Version).
1
After the rain
The earth is black as blood
Drawn from a dead Calf.
The Goddess Aphrodite,
Born of the dank earth
And not from the sea
As the Ancient Greeks
Would have us believe,
Is herself dark as
The Calf`s blood.
We sacrifice our selves
Totally
To her fierce deity
Without a thought,
Without a care.
Our bodies intertwined
Tightly together
In the still house
Like children stung by dreams.
We sleep fitfully
Afeared of the crescent moon
That hangs in the June sky
Like a sickle;
Or a flint knife lifted high
over a sacred altar.
2.
The Roman Gods are routed;
Diana turns aside,
Emphatically defeated;
Mars discards his armour,
His sword is pitted with rust.
Aphrodite now assumes
All their ancient powers,
Their sacred arts and symbols.
She sorts them with due ceremony
To neatly pack away
In her Shoulder Bag of tricks.
3.
The cool rain has returned,
Hiding the sharp faced moon
Behind a curtain of torn silk.
In the dark we become aware
Of the cruel smile of the Goddess,
A smile that she rarely shows
Except when the moon is black.-
We snuggle up tightly together,
Caught in our mutual dependence,
The dark gift of the Goddess.
We snuggle up tightly together
To welcome sleep.
A sleep bereft of dreams.
The quiet sleep of the just.
Outside the tethered calves
Low softly in their pens.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 15th.-19th.-20th.- 21st. 2013.
February 23rd. 2014.
--------------------------------------
(B)
The Rite of Spring.
Dance ugly
Give your education the boot
Be yourselves
Spit in the eye of the critics
Don`t give a damn
Dance ugly
And love it
Love it all the way to the archives
People don`t believe you
When you dance ugly
They think you are lying
Making them look like fools
Gargoyles
They think you cannot dance at all
They think you are just thrashing in air
Meaninglessly
Trashing the heirlooms of reason
Idiotically
Like mythologised Vandals
Goths
When really you are forcing
Deep Deep Deep
Right into the heart of all things
The rock drill of intelligence
The diamond edge of truth
What is truth?
Pilate asked that question
But never got the answer,
It was just too easy for him,
Sacrifice was a masculine issue,
Nothing to do with the feminine,
Resurrection was not in his remit.
Dance ugly
Be true to yourselves
Thrust your fierceness into my face
Open up the jungle
The battles of life and death
Reality
Show us what we are
Trevor john Karsavin Potter
May 26th. 2013.
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