Loss.

Tasting your wine

                Inconsolable

Stung by bitterness

                I think of you

Holding the child towards me



My Love

Your absence darkens my world view

An iron curtain shutting down
The light that I had always lived by

As though I was not there



Tonight I miss you talking to me

Enigmatic

                Soulful

Almost priest like when you lied



I would note the oblique lilt of your laughter
Those times you sorted dried flowers in the kitchen

Your chair tilted back

The child asleep in your arms



It is too hard - too hard - to live alone
Bearing the weight of a memory
That
         I cannot now shrug off

With the ease that I shredded your photo



Trevor John Karsavin Potter
22nd. September 2013.
Part sketched 4th. - 7th. December 2012.

(1) At First Sight. (2) Untitled.

                     1.

             At First Sight.


The moment I arrived at the Theatre
Your smile revoked the dark spaces
With a fierce light
That for that moment dislodged cold reason.

I wanted to kiss you,
But your smile also flickered a warning,
An indiscrete Stop - Go innuendo
Designed to repel hasty actions.

I stood stock still in the door way
Fearing examination by spotlight,
My new script already waste paper.
Love is not so easily accomplished.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
17th. September 2013. 
Note: I mean "Indiscrete" not "Indiscreet".

------------------------------------------

                   2.

             Untitled.


       September clouds
       Dirty washing
       Grey as a bat`s wing


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
14th. September 2013. 

Dream Laden Spring. (First, rejected version)).

The morning after we celebrated your birthday
the wind turned mild;
Wild daffodils rocked like dreaming children
beside the quiet river;
Skeletal trees ducked and weaved under clouds
That drifted silent as swans.
Winter had slippered off for an early sleep over
On the peaks of far away mountains.

And then, as was usual at this time of year,
Numerous rumours awoke and swiftly flourished
Among old wives crouched around the camp fire;
A cornucopia of worried Fortune Tellers
Whispering informally together.-

The phoenix was seen alive upon a Monday,
She zig zagged through a galaxy of branches
To scorch dead wood; scintillate the nascent blossom
Into life with sacred fire.
A unicorn, tamed by a young girl`s simple kindness,
Pranced in a distant meadow for one whole Sunday,
Then misted away in a trice like April snow.
A dog faced boy was found half dead in a cellar;
A wolf brought shame on a black eyed red cloaked virgin;
A milch cow cited Homer to the vicar;
A cockerel outmanoeuvred a ravenous vixen;
A horse gave birth to a cat.
Tall tales that were clutched to old hearts like tainted silver
Now that the cold time was over.

But we could not rest, you and I.
We could not hide our fears in a corner.
We had known too much pain
that morning in early December
When the surgery failed to save
Our unborn daughter.
We could not join the dreamers, you and I,
But remained inside your ancient Gypsy Wagon
Curled up tight together
Listening to the changes in the weather:

Anticipating a knock of muffled heartbeats;
Your doctor`s benediction; a nascent tear;
A sharp kick in the belly;
The new life turning, yearning deep within you,
The longed for twins conceived so quickly after
The passing of their sister.
We do not care for the strange talk of the dreamers:
This new, unexpected, late in life reality
Demands our full attention.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 5th. - 6th. - 9th. 2013. From an idea sketched March 10th. 2011. 
October 21st.2013.
Prefered rewritten version published June 15th. 2016..

(1) August 30th. 2013.(2) Late May Morning.(3) Farewell. (4). Repost.

                1.

    August 30th. 2013.

Today all Ireland is weeping
But, as usual,
               No one is listening.


Goodnight sweet Prince,
True memory cannot invoke you,
Silence now claims it`s due.


Your poems are rough hewn
                               monuments
Slowly remade by the weather.


We must not, for any reason, be afraid.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
August 31st. 2013.
Last line added September 4th. 2013.
-------------------------------------

                 2.

Late May Morning.

Translucent leaves
Green glass on black boughs
Absorbing the sun
Exposing the bones of the world

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 31st. 2013.
-----------------------------------------

                  3

            Farewell.

Ending quietly
A small leaf dropped
On a moonlit pond
Causing no ripples

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 11th. 2013. 
----------------------------------------

                  4.

            Reposte.

My ex wife snarled
"Mujak"
as I cleared the household rubbish.
But she never danced a single night
with Karsavina,
And she could not dig up cabbages.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 3rd. 2013. 

The Rose

The Rose of all our hopes
Lies deep in Southwark mud
A hostage
A smothered dream
Crushed
              But not forsaken

I lift it from the mud
Just like a broken keepsake
And offer it to you
A gift of love
A token

Please take it from my hand
And plant it in your Heart
Your living garden

There is life locked in these roots
This gnarled and broken stem
Old life we still can honour
Care for
              Cherish

So please accept this gift
This sacred bond that links
Historic generations -
The Britons with the Greeks -
The Renaissance with the Modern

Please take it from my hand
To nurture in your Heart
That it may prosper
Flourish

Grow tall
And once more blossom


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
19th. - 31st. August 2013.
For my friends at The Rose Theatre, Bankside.

(1) To J M the D T`s. (2) Fatal Secrets.

               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.

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).