1
The Healing.
A crushed snowdrop
Slowly opening in my hand;
Absorbing tap water
Cupped in my palm.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 19th. 2014
-------------------------------
2
Cat Dancer.
After the storm
Even our cat trod the walkway
with a new grace,
a linear elegance;
Tip-toeing around the fetid puddles -
The broken fences -
Much like a Maitre de Ballet
Gifted with four swift feet.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 28th. 2013 - February 19th. 2014.
In memory of Max, a very cool cat.
----------------------------------------------
3
Girl.
Girl
Mother of secrets
Face white as the northern ice floes
She retreats into shyness
Hiding beneath her heavy skirts
Two fractious children
Two heart breakers
Impatient to burst out onto a world
Not readied for their fearlessness.
Girl
I once danced with you through the small hours.
Why do you lower your head when I pass?
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 19th. - 20th. 2014.
Wednesday, 19 February 2014
Friday, 14 February 2014
Finsbury Park 1969. (Revised Version).
Wet Streets.
Victorian houses turning black in the rain.
Puddles spreading slowly over the pavements.
You light a cigarette, and then you kiss me,
Coughing smoke into my face.
We laugh like sexless children.
Adolescent humour bright with impish promise;
Two kids larking wildly in the streets,
Yet powerless beneath the crush of time.
You searched; you longed to love your father;
Longed to find him in some foreign land.
I did not search; but I was lost to mine; lost,
unreguarded,
A love child born, but hidden like a crime.
This was the anguish that changed us into lovers,
Love children, deep in love, because we were not loved.
These were the bonds that scarred, yet deftly bound us;
An anguish shared, our inheritance of pain.
And then your mother thought it time to part us.
Time to pack you off across the sea.
Powerless, we let her compromise our futures.
Deaf to my pleas you boarded the train for Dublin:
Our talk of marriage, salt upon our lips.
Our love child crying, tugging at your fingers.
The clamour of Euston sharpening our fears.
"I shall be faithful", you screamed across the barrier.
And then you were gone,
Lost in a throng of strangers.
Wet streets.
Victorian houses turning black in the rain.
Puddles spreading slowly over the pavements.
I shiver in my loneliness.-
The station clock struck nine.
The crowded train departed.
London, you are a book of vagrant memories
That penetrate my skin, like the rain.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 8th. 1984.- November 11th. 2003. -
February 14th. - 24th. 2014.
Victorian houses turning black in the rain.
Puddles spreading slowly over the pavements.
You light a cigarette, and then you kiss me,
Coughing smoke into my face.
We laugh like sexless children.
Adolescent humour bright with impish promise;
Two kids larking wildly in the streets,
Yet powerless beneath the crush of time.
You searched; you longed to love your father;
Longed to find him in some foreign land.
I did not search; but I was lost to mine; lost,
unreguarded,
A love child born, but hidden like a crime.
This was the anguish that changed us into lovers,
Love children, deep in love, because we were not loved.
These were the bonds that scarred, yet deftly bound us;
An anguish shared, our inheritance of pain.
And then your mother thought it time to part us.
Time to pack you off across the sea.
Powerless, we let her compromise our futures.
Deaf to my pleas you boarded the train for Dublin:
Our talk of marriage, salt upon our lips.
Our love child crying, tugging at your fingers.
The clamour of Euston sharpening our fears.
"I shall be faithful", you screamed across the barrier.
And then you were gone,
Lost in a throng of strangers.
Wet streets.
Victorian houses turning black in the rain.
Puddles spreading slowly over the pavements.
I shiver in my loneliness.-
The station clock struck nine.
The crowded train departed.
London, you are a book of vagrant memories
That penetrate my skin, like the rain.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 8th. 1984.- November 11th. 2003. -
February 14th. - 24th. 2014.
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
Autumn Travails / Winter Blues. (Rewritten).
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 frieght.
As has often been the case in my life
I appear to be the odd one out.
I am dressed in sober 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 year.
Even now the sun grows mellow, indistinct,
Soon it will vanish completely,
Drowned in a bruise of clouds.
I stare out of the carriage window
At a city drenched in rain,
The Plane Trees leaning sideways,
Their roots submerged in mud.
The passengers all appear to be wearing black.
I find it hard to look at them.
I think they must all be doctors
On route to a colleagues funeral.
I touch your photograph in my pocket
And dream of California;
We two holding hands in secret,.
And waiting for he sky to fall.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 28th. - 29th, 2013.
June 13th. - 14th. 2014
Rewritten July 22nd. 2015.
The passengers all appear to be wearing black.
We huddle inside this commuter train,
Jolted unceremoniously towards London
Like a jumble of nondescript frieght.
As has often been the case in my life
I appear to be the odd one out.
I am dressed in sober 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 year.
Even now the sun grows mellow, indistinct,
Soon it will vanish completely,
Drowned in a bruise of clouds.
I stare out of the carriage window
At a city drenched in rain,
The Plane Trees leaning sideways,
Their roots submerged in mud.
The passengers all appear to be wearing black.
I find it hard to look at them.
I think they must all be doctors
On route to a colleagues funeral.
I touch your photograph in my pocket
And dream of California;
We two holding hands in secret,.
And waiting for he sky to fall.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 28th. - 29th, 2013.
June 13th. - 14th. 2014
Rewritten July 22nd. 2015.
Thursday, 30 January 2014
Soul Poem, Love Has No Perfect Language.
Soul Poem, Love Has No Perfect Language.
In the secret darks of your soul -
Cold desert space - a forest stirs -
Probing with myriad roots
The tangled depths
Of dappled time -
Deep inner emptiness -
Seeking a source to tap -
A fault to crack open -
Cram with new life -
A blank to score with raw power - eradicate.-
The forest is full of noises -
A filigree network of sounds
Warping vacancy into self awareness
With the weft and weave of language.
You touch my hand -
Having newly accepted my presence. -
I struggle to find a pattern of words
To adequately express this moment.
Not speaking we accept the primacy of love -
We seek empathy in the pain of silence
As we stand face to face - apart -& yet together.
Love has no perfect language. -
We stand face to face - enthralled by the knock of our heartbeats
But blind to the world - brimming with life around us. -
Heedless on proud wings fly the feral swans.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 18th. 1969. - January 30th. - 31st. 2014.
February 3rd. - 10th. 2014.
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
After the Swim, An Aegean Nocturne.
That evening
I found you lost and alone
A mile or two from your companions.
A Greek Goddess out of tune with nature
Standing under the fragile blossom
That shuddered pink snow in a sudden shower.
I walked, head bowed, slowly towards you,
An acolyte in awe of your lissom radiance,
Your eyes the colour of nutmeg.
Only the white towel wrapped around your head
Conveyed a sense of the ordinary.
Your pet dog chaffed against his muzzle.
Perhaps he would have torn me into pieces
If given half a chance.
You grabbed me fiercely, compressing my knuckles;
I stood stone still, stunned by your presence.
Your pet dog growled and leaped in frenzy
Chasing mad circles around our ankles.
Somehow we side stepped his brutal Volta.
Deftly giving him the slip
We ran swiftly out of the garden.
That night the birds sang outside your window,
Singing all night as though trained to please us;
And twin stars danced brightly above Mount Olympus.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 22nd. 2013. - January 22nd. - 23rd. - 31st. 2014.
I found you lost and alone
A mile or two from your companions.
A Greek Goddess out of tune with nature
Standing under the fragile blossom
That shuddered pink snow in a sudden shower.
I walked, head bowed, slowly towards you,
An acolyte in awe of your lissom radiance,
Your eyes the colour of nutmeg.
Only the white towel wrapped around your head
Conveyed a sense of the ordinary.
Your pet dog chaffed against his muzzle.
Perhaps he would have torn me into pieces
If given half a chance.
You grabbed me fiercely, compressing my knuckles;
I stood stone still, stunned by your presence.
Your pet dog growled and leaped in frenzy
Chasing mad circles around our ankles.
Somehow we side stepped his brutal Volta.
Deftly giving him the slip
We ran swiftly out of the garden.
That night the birds sang outside your window,
Singing all night as though trained to please us;
And twin stars danced brightly above Mount Olympus.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 22nd. 2013. - January 22nd. - 23rd. - 31st. 2014.
Thursday, 16 January 2014
Shakespeare.
Shakespeare, I meet you in the pub,
The brothel, the goal.
You are one of our number,
A rogue and a vagabond, a whore monger,
Dirt under your finger nails, spittle in your beard,
Cocking a snoop at turkey fat puritans
As you write your plays to the thrum of the clock
In a smoke black alehouse.
Friend, you do not belong on the West End stage.
Rapier sharp with sexual fury
Your words daub the tenements with a visceral anger
More relevant than untutored graffiti
Telling us exactly how the world wags;
Even squeaky clean school books cannot sanitize you.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 14th. - 22nd. - 23rd. 2014.
Revised January 7th. 2015.
The brothel, the goal.
You are one of our number,
A rogue and a vagabond, a whore monger,
Dirt under your finger nails, spittle in your beard,
Cocking a snoop at turkey fat puritans
As you write your plays to the thrum of the clock
In a smoke black alehouse.
Friend, you do not belong on the West End stage.
Rapier sharp with sexual fury
Your words daub the tenements with a visceral anger
More relevant than untutored graffiti
Telling us exactly how the world wags;
Even squeaky clean school books cannot sanitize you.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 14th. - 22nd. - 23rd. 2014.
Revised January 7th. 2015.
Tuesday, 7 January 2014
(1). A Russian Christmas Eve. (2). Bonne Nuit Gymnopedie.
1.
A Russian Christmas Eve. Revised Version.
How strange the time feels
Those days when my home town
Seems to emulate the beauty
Of a half remembered foreign city
That a lifetime ago I visited.
But the drab cold rains quickly swab away
All vestiges of vibrant colour.
Tonight is the Russian Christmas Eve,
But already shoots are breaking open
The lid of ash grey London earth
Compacted down by boot and shovel
Over the bulbs buried in my garden.
Tonight I kneel before an icon;
The Virgin Mother holding the Saviour
In hands that are delicate, yet strong:
Her eyes, blank with pain, are weary;
Her face wan as a child`s in Auschwitz.-
The guttering candles sting my eyes
As I kiss the ancient gilded image
With the compassion of a lonely stranger;
An Outsider unnoticed in a crowded church.
How strange the time feels.
I have long been an exile from my Russian past;
The emigre dancers, musicians and dreamers
Who nurtured my intellect when a child.
A world of ballet, of poets, of painters;
Of Stravinsky and the Orthodox chants:
The surreal counterpoint of Pushkin`s chained cat
With Stalin`s Gulag, where a relative died.
Yet London has always been my home city;
The golden domes were a distant dreamscape
Sheaved in the mists of my imagination.
The bulbs that I planted in late September
May perhaps create an oasis of colour
Between the stone paths of my garden
And lend me a sense of belonging.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
6th. - 7th.- 10th. - 14th. January 2014.
July 18th. 2020.
Originally titled January 6th. 2014.
--------------------------------------------
2.
Bonne Nuit Gymnopedie.
Satie flicked the nail across the head
Whereas Richard Strauss grandly missed the point.
Proust picked the petals from dead flowers.
Ravel flecked the keyboard with snipped lace.
Boredom could ensue, but, let me see?
Yes. - Pass a menu. Pass a serviette.
Lean back on this umbrella, it is the only one I have.
Dismiss that cup of coffee:. - Devour a cigarette.
Life is a roulette wheel of lonely nights and days,
Quickly pass the whiskey mate - and then decide who pays.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
7th. - 30th. January 2014.
18th. July 2020.
A Russian Christmas Eve. Revised Version.
How strange the time feels
Those days when my home town
Seems to emulate the beauty
Of a half remembered foreign city
That a lifetime ago I visited.
But the drab cold rains quickly swab away
All vestiges of vibrant colour.
Tonight is the Russian Christmas Eve,
But already shoots are breaking open
The lid of ash grey London earth
Compacted down by boot and shovel
Over the bulbs buried in my garden.
Tonight I kneel before an icon;
The Virgin Mother holding the Saviour
In hands that are delicate, yet strong:
Her eyes, blank with pain, are weary;
Her face wan as a child`s in Auschwitz.-
The guttering candles sting my eyes
As I kiss the ancient gilded image
With the compassion of a lonely stranger;
An Outsider unnoticed in a crowded church.
How strange the time feels.
I have long been an exile from my Russian past;
The emigre dancers, musicians and dreamers
Who nurtured my intellect when a child.
A world of ballet, of poets, of painters;
Of Stravinsky and the Orthodox chants:
The surreal counterpoint of Pushkin`s chained cat
With Stalin`s Gulag, where a relative died.
Yet London has always been my home city;
The golden domes were a distant dreamscape
Sheaved in the mists of my imagination.
The bulbs that I planted in late September
May perhaps create an oasis of colour
Between the stone paths of my garden
And lend me a sense of belonging.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
6th. - 7th.- 10th. - 14th. January 2014.
July 18th. 2020.
Originally titled January 6th. 2014.
--------------------------------------------
2.
Bonne Nuit Gymnopedie.
Satie flicked the nail across the head
Whereas Richard Strauss grandly missed the point.
Proust picked the petals from dead flowers.
Ravel flecked the keyboard with snipped lace.
Boredom could ensue, but, let me see?
Yes. - Pass a menu. Pass a serviette.
Lean back on this umbrella, it is the only one I have.
Dismiss that cup of coffee:. - Devour a cigarette.
Life is a roulette wheel of lonely nights and days,
Quickly pass the whiskey mate - and then decide who pays.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
7th. - 30th. January 2014.
18th. July 2020.
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