(1) October Foundlings. (2) Herne Bay Outing.- A sketch. (Revised)

                       1.

         October Foundlings.

You have come back to me too late,
Returning like a sparrow with one good wing;
Head down against the north east wind
To reach a half remembered homeland.
I cannot now distinguish right from wrong,
Or fathom how to solve intractable problems,
Those that we create to harm ourselves.
Perhaps we should simply rest and wait,
Wait for time to heal all aching wounds
With a kind hand, or the undeniable force
Of an unredeemed necessity.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
14th. October 2013.
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                    2.

Herne Bay Outing. - A sketch.


Old people staring out to sea,
Companions with an opaque history
Hand in hand;
Cheep mobiles stashed in pockets;
Tissues up their sleeves;
Complexions smooth like uncooked pastry.


They criticise the young`uns on the beach
That pursue a truculent hound dog into the briny;
Or storm across half rotted wooden Breakers
Like a petulant free range army.
The littlest holler and scream at the crashing waves,
Whilst outflanking an ambush by cantankerous Seagulls
As though the flocks were rife with Bubonic Plague.


These are the holiday outings
that I always seem to remember:

October days colder than December:

Salt adding lustre to Shortbread;

Sand drifting into the tea.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
3rd. -  7th. -17th. October 2013.
November 18th. 2014.

Two Poems for Children. (1) The Wodwo. (2) For voice and Percussion.

             1.

     The Wodwo.


I am the Wodwo.
I am neither a tree nor a man,
Sand nor water.
I am neither spirit nor corporeal,
Earth nor air.
Wild as the Wilderness
I predate archeology.

I am the Wodwo,
Entirely my true self,
Nothing more
And nothing less.
I am certainly not a vortex,
Nor a vacuum,
I am really truly here.

I am the Wodwo.
I whisper through the bare boughs
Wordlessly,
And always at midnight
When the moon is full.
I learn all your secrets
But I can never speak them.
Sometimes I drop dead leaves
To spoil your dreams.

I am the Wodwo,
Watch out for me,
It may be entirely possible
That I am not a stranger,
Nor a shadow in your mind.
I may be the authentic You.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
October 13th. 2013.

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             2.

For Voice and Percussion.


Who stole the silences?

Who stole the silences?
Who stole
             the Wodwo`s soul
From the moorlands
And the woodlands
In a sack
Upon bent back
Running running
             footsteps cunning
Fences leaping
Footpaths thrumming
Through the sleeping village creeping
Into shuttered bedrooms peeping
Overriding our deep dreaming
Balancing on thumbs and kettledrums
Balancing      hovering
Swaying        fluttering
Zooming        fumbling
Cringing in fear
             in a statuette`s ear
Out of the countryside retreating
Into the godless city creeping
Down the dingy back streets sneaking
Through the midnight shadows fleeting
Dark ways walking
Byways stalking
Half forgotten churchyards haunting?


Listen hard
              and you will hear
Phantom footsteps
              softly echoing

Diminishing out of our time.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 19th. 1964. - October 11th. 2013.

(1) October Sketch Book, Impressions of The Kent Coast. (New Version) (2) Duff Translations.(Revised Version).

                  1. 

October Sketch Book, Impressions of The Kent Coast.


The purple flowers of Autumn
Stand tall
On the salt scarred cliff
Like ragged vagabonds.

Bees hovering in the muggy air,
Sluggish,
Heavy,
Mourn the loss of summer.
Time weighs them down
But rest is not an option,
There is still too much to do.

The well appointed hive,
Clogged and sticky,
Emits a sullen music.
The old Queen
Gross,
Unwieldy,
Locked into the centre
Under the weight of her tribe.
She barely moves,
This crucible of the hive
Locked deep in tumultuous darkness,
Enslaved to a cruel fecundity.

Outside her narrow home
The purple flowers of Autumn
Sway in a soft sea breeze.
Small children flick the petals with fidgety fingers,
But do not attempt to pick them.

These children are galvanised by other priorities,
Games and parties; pleasure their reason for living.

They are busy rushing down onto the beach;
Flocking like querulous geese scudding the estuary;

Or a petulant swarm escaping over the shore
Chasing an inchoate dream.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
4th. - 5th. - 6th. - 7th. - 9th. October 2013.
Loosely linked impressions of Herne Bay.
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                     2.

         Duff Translations.


You recreate my poem
As you read it,
Memorize it,
Making it your own.

My carefully structured cadences
Hacked out of recognition,
Down graded,
Swiped,
Turned inside out,
No longer mine.

My clear straight forward imagery
Graffitied by your word games;
Your Catch All
List of sayings,
Tabloid speak.

A collage of random news bites
Inconsequently flung together
That mutate like Chinese Whispers
In your mind,

Or
Strange heretical flowers
Abandoned to grow wild
In a once well ordered
Garden,
The dreamscape I designed,

But
As printed on the page
My carefully structured poem
Remains entirely mine,
Inviolate.
It is simply hashed up in your head
When you wilfully misread it;
Customize it for your schemes:

And despite your worst endeavours
My words retain integrity,
My mind remains unchanged.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
16th. - 19th. August, 26th. September, 4th. October 2013.

(1) Autumn Travails, Original Version (2) A Fragment.

                     1.

          Autumn Travails. Original Version.


Perhaps we are already in mourning.

The passengers all appear to be wearing black.

We huddle inside this commuter train,
Jolted unceremoniously towards London
Like a jumble of nondescript freight.

As has often been the case in my life
I appear to be the odd one out.
I am dressed in grey.
Black is too formal for me.

October will begin tomorrow.
The golden month with the cruel edge,
A knife in the belly of the old year
Slowly draining the last warm dregs of vibrant colour.

Even now the sun grows mellow, indistinct;
Soon it will vanish completely,
Submerged under a bruise of Autumn clouds
Mauling the pastel skies.

The sun will remain dead to us.

The sun will remain dead to us.
Dead until the raw winds of March
Worry the gaunt trees
Out of their gnarled sleep;

Worry the dead colours back into life.

The sun will remain dead to us.
Dead until the dark bruise disperses
And warm blood pulses through the healed veins,
Pumped by a vigorous heart.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 28th. - 29th. 2013.
February 11th. 2014.
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                    2.

            A Fragment.


The fragility of moonlight frosting your face
Reminds me of swans drifting through mist
Upon still waters


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
May 10th. 1984. - September 29th. 2013.

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".

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                   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..