The One Tun. (A Recollection in Prose). Age. (A Poem).

               Age.

Now that I am more than 70
My lifeline is almost undone,
But old age should be a time of fecundity,
Not of dearth.

Gnarled trunks held firm by steel supports
May yield their richest harvests
The closer they lean to the earth.

Young buds breaking out of the cracked boughs
Open wide like a prisoner`s eyes
To filch a glimmer of light:

But too soon, like an old man`s memory,
They fall apart in the glare of the sun.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 27th. - 28th. 2014. 

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                 The One Tun.

Last Saturday night, on the eve of my birthday, I was celebrating the last night of a wonderful all female production of Richard IIIrd put on by the Scrawny Cat Theatre Company at The Rose Playhouse. I was a guest of the caste, and we made a very lively group jostled around a window side table in The Swan. I was asked by one of the girls what life was like in London in the 1960`s, but because of the general hub - bub in the pub I was unable to say very much at all. On reflection, I think it is now the right time for me to write a little about those extraordinary nights and days in a city undergoing unprecedented change. I was just sixteen and a student at Middlesex Poly when midnight January 1st. 1960 arrived like any other mid century New Year. I had no idea that by the time I reached my twenty first year that I would be plunged into the very centre of a mad cap vortex of unstoppable social change. At the very heart of this change was a pub in Fitzrovia frequented, for a short hectic while, by poets, musicians, actors, artists, the local everyday citizens, and a contingent of latter day Beatniks. Every revolution needs a watering hole, and this Irish Pub was it. Well, at least we imagined it to be.

For a while we were not really that interested in forging a new path. Many of us regretted that we had not been alive and kicking in the decadent 1890`s, spouting aphorisms and poetry in the Cafe Royale and sticking up for Dowson and Oscar Wilde. These were our semi legendary heroes, and we managed to make aquaintance with one or two old folk who had been young that long ago time. But soon, of course, we commenced carving out our own course. I would sit in the pub, drinking little, but helping my friends write songs for their Rock Band. I also fell romantically in love with a sun bright beautiful American actress, who sadly only had a few years to relish her good life. But then many of my friends have died before their proper time, sometimes by accident, but more often as a result of the revolutionary life style changes that were set in motion by our commitment to raw edged honesty and social equality. We were still socialists then, although we were not afraid of making and losing money.

A man who in many ways epitomised those times was the Sligo born Ray Lindy. A perfect match for "The Man From The West" as portrayed by Jack Yeats, he was a free spirit like no other. I would imagine that he has many descendants, his outrageous behaviour would lead me to believe that this should be so; but it was his talk that was important; the stories that he told and the rich language that gushed from his erudite tongue. He should have been a writer, like his wife; but sadly I know of no books stacked away on library shelves. Ray was a fan of the great barristers, even praising men he loathed for their brilliant speeches. He was himself great at the bar, usually in Fitzrovia and Covent Garden; but this kind of genius is no prolonger of good health, talent and life.

But many of my friends brought about real change at that time, usually by way of the arts. Many have become great actors and directors, one a great playwrite, another a fine song writer; yet another a social reformer; but the rest have acheived little, perhaps because they could never concentrate on one idea at a time.

I well remember Pauline Boty telling me with great enthusiasm of a large painting that she was then creating for a customer she did not name. Sadly this painting, which is most likely her finest work, has for decades been missing. Pauline died only a year or two after our meeting, a victim of cancer, and only now her great worth as an artist is becoming public knowledge. The contribution made by women to the arts and to society as a whole is still not properly acknowledged in Britain.

I had in my teenage years been a singer and a dancer; flickering in grey and white across TV screens in Britain, Europe and Australia. I had been known to some as "the boy who sang with Callas" because I had indeed shared a platform with that great soprano. But by 1965 I did not really know what to do with my life, and, for some inexplicable reason, I rebelled against a life in the Theatre when the Theatre is the only world that I really understand and feel at home in. I declared that I wanted to be a poet, but really had no idea how to go about becoming such a rare creature. I battled with words night and day, and did in fact produce some poems that I still quite like, but all have been rewritten several times since then. My problem was that I did not want to speak another persons words in a Play, I wanted only to speak my own. I was in fact on a voyage of self discovery, and yet I did not then realise that I had already set sail; I  imagined that I was still standing on the quay watching the great ships come and go. I also would have loved to have continued as a dancer, but already the arthritis had taken root in my feet and hands, where it flourishes still, distorting bone and nerve ends. I made a mistake walking away from the Theatre at that time, but I did not walk very far and I now play a small part in the hustle and bustle of Bankside. I also got written into "Bedroom Farce" by Alan Aykbourn, but that is another story.

Moving forward to the twenty first century,I must say that I do not regret the passing of the years, but I think it is time for me to place a few memories on the archive shelves, and this I plan to do in future. A few prose chapters lodged between the poems.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
April 29th. 2014.  
  .      

Love In A Time of Austerity.

I have dancers feet,
Small and crippled.
How do you expect me to come running
When you call?

The creditors boarding up your window
Do not concern me,
A little self help could get you out of this crises
If you just sat down and thought.

Yes I do love you,
And I have been remarkably faithful
For almost a decade,
But for the life of me, I do not know why.

A quota of give and take should be part of the bargain
In any stable relationship;
The flow of interest in just one direction
Is an issue that can be addressed.

Your shredded pockets must now be repaired
And the keyring put back on your belt,
Then I just might turn the light on in the hallway
When you next come to knock at my door.

I am not now angry with you
For trying to make use of my loyalty
Because you believed that I would always be here:

But a little self help on your part
Could certainly solve a few problems,
And perhaps reinstate our good fortune.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 24th. 2014.

Maundy Thursday Night, A Poem in Two Parts. (Revised Version).

                   1.

         The Waiting.

Pitch black
The Hand of God resting over us
Shadowing the interior of the church
With an intensity of sorrow
That average grief cannot touch.

The candles flicker in the fierce gloom
Like sparks of winter starlight
Refracted through sheets of melting ice.
I shiver in the darkness
Feeling intensely lost, alone,
Although the silent church is crowded.

Scarcely breathing
The sombre congregation kneels in prayer
Before the stripped altar, the vacated shrine;
The absolute emptiness that veils the eternal.
I look to the bare wall where an icon
Is normally placed amongst fresh cut flowers
And am struck by a searing pang of loss.

Today and yesterday and tomorrow
Come together in this single moment
That seems to exist outside linear time.
Christ, who found good in every man,
Opened dead eyes with the power of compassion,
Now prays alone,
Trapped like a thief on the Mount of Olives
Under an implacable Pesach moon.

We kneel in the crowded dark of the chapel
Seeking to empathize with the heart broken Saviour
But finding no words that are adequate;
Our imaginations too tame to envisage such sorrow;
Our emotions confined to the world as we know it.

                        
                     2.

            The Arrest.

Traversing a distant rock strewn valley
The traitor and guards are marching to claim Him
For the whip, the Cross, the Crown of Thorns.
His ferocious cry of desolation,
Wild, like that of an injured animal,
Reverberates bleakly into our lives
Although we can barely imagine Him.
A cry that could not anticipate
The enigma that is salvation.

Under the twisted olive boughs
Deaf to all prayer
His disciples remained locked in sleep
Like untroubled children.
We, in this blacked out London church
Keep hidden our private fears and failings
Whilst trying to hope, beyond clear reason,
That we could be almost as brave as Christ,
A miracle that surely, dare not happen?.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
March 29th. - 30th. 2013.
Re-written April 17th. - 19th. 2014. 

Easter 1966. (Original Version).

Girl
I remember the warmth of your love in a cold house;
The April wind rattling the sash windows;
The street dogs yelping.

We seldom linked our fingers, cuddled or kissed;
For hours we lay together writing songs,
Their words long since forgotten.

One night we made a wedding ring from knotted thread;
But the plaintive wail of passing trains
Told of unplanned journeys.

Girl
This poem is an intimate letter
Posted into the dark.

I hope you find it.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 11th. - 12th. 2014.

Written on the forty eighth anniversary of the events recalled.

Two Poems. (1) A Love Remembered, Forty Years After. First Version. (2) October in The North. (For Emily Jane Bronte).

A Love Remembered, Forty Years After. (First Version).

(Rewritten Version, Published July 2015).        

                    1.

Girl
Slim as a Weeping Willow;
Hair unkempt, an ebony river
Flowing over frost white shoulders:
Eyes intense with sorrow.

How I miss the dance of your words,
The visceral rough edge of your laughter
Cutting me with the savage fierceness
Of unfettered animal emotions.

                     2.

Shortly after our child was born
You returned home to misty Ulster,
Retreating from the hubbub of London.
You mentioned only a short vacation,
But the evening that you boarded ship
A door slammed shut against the future
That we had carefully planned together,
Slammed shut with a raw finality.

                       3.

Girl
I now know that your parents thought us
Too young to wed and raise a family,
Too young to care and love.
                     
                       4.

One weekday, while your parents were out working,
You stayed at home and tried to cut your wrists.
With luck,your mother came back one hour early,
And somehow managed to save you.

All this I learned forty years too late
back home in London. A call on the telephone
from a complete stranger.

                        5.

These days I often visit Belfast City,
A troubled townscape packed with history;
The ghosts of shipyards;
Sectarian Peace Lines;
Armalites smuggled through the lough.
At dawn I have often been awoken
By a distant squabble of famished seagulls
Swarming over the oil black shallows:
The wail of a siren invoking legends:
The departure of ferries from the dock.

None of this now is foreign to me,
But sometimes when I walk alone
Through the modern day city centre
The past breaks through confining shadows
To stun me with a violent shock.
And as though you were trying to force me awake
At such times I have suddenly heard your voice
Clear as a bell, but strangely distant,
Keening softly              whispering sadly
Somewhere                 deep in the crowd.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 6th. - 7th. - 8th. - 9th. - 10th.  2014.
October 8th. 2014.
This poem is written as an organic growth, from seeding to final flowering. Hence the structure.

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October In The North. (For Emily Jane Bronte).


The clouds betwixt the sun and me
Increase my sense of fragility
My fear of winter haunts me

My shadow is swept from off the ground
In a flurry of Autumnal leaves
The fraught wind huffs and heaves

I bury my hands deep into my sleaves
And bow my head to the rain


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 1st. 2008.

Written with ironic affection.

Lost Girl.(Revised Version).

The last time that I saw you
Alcohol had taken it`s toll,
But the bright girl that I had once played with
Was still alive in you.

Your voice had been a sweet soprano,
The most beautiful in your Class;
But now you stuttered a garbled whisper,
And your hair had turned thin and grey.

Your teacher had warned of disaster
When she found you propping the Bar:
How I wish that time could flow backwards
To return us to who we were.

I have learned that you died and were buried
A year ago today;
I now sit alone in my back room
Recalling two children at play.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
4th. - 5th. April 2014.

Memory. (Revised).

When I opened the window this morning
I thought that I briefly saw you
Admiring the miniature roses.
But then, with a shock, I realized
That it is now more than twenty years
Since you last stood here in my garden,
Your hat tilted over grey eyes,
Your arm hooked loosely in mine.

Such memories are not pale ghosts,
They remind me of transfers printed
On derelict buildings
To remind us of what we have lost.
Nor are they sepia photographs
Stored in dusty albums
That are normally shut and locked.
But whenever I think of you
Memories lose their sepia strangeness
And become suffused with colour,
They are poignant, yet feisty with light.

When I opened the window this morning
I thought that I briefly saw you
Caught in a halo of sunlight.
You stood where you always had stood
When the roses were fully in bloom,
But I had no time to catch your attention,
No time to call out your name.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 1st. - 3rd. - 4th. - May 26th. 2014.
June 4th. 2018.