Ladbroke Grove 1987.

I broke my promise.
I did not visit you.
I sat all alone in the pub
Nursing my self regard
Like a pampered pop star.
Disturbed by your candid awkwardness
I had become afraid of intimacy.

You waited all day in your room,
Staring out of the window at the passing crowd,
Hoping to spy the visitor who never came.
The day cooled and darkened,
A shower sluiced the streets; wild rivulets of mud
Gushing through the gutters,
Flooding pot holes and making the cross roads dangerous.
The weather mirrored your mood with uncanny precision.
You slammed the window tight against the driving rain.

Your friends told me that you cried then;
Turned your face to the wall, tore at the curtain,
Broke a glass.
You had never shown me your tears,
Nor your anger, nor your love,
But your silence was familiar to me.

The next day I arrived on the doorstep,
Dishevelled, unkempt, just like the weather.
You said nothing, your face was a stern mask,
A parchment scraped clean of writing.
My greeting was treated with a quiet contempt,
A deft glance at the door mat. - Frozen out
I snatched some chit-chat with your neighbour,
Snippets of news and some general tittle-tattle.
You were watchful, aloof; but hunched by the fire
took note of my every statement, thinking.

And then you stood up, head lowered, just like a nun,
Or maybe a Pre-Raphaelite priestess nursing a grief.
Gently you brushed my face with your index finger
As you passed by me, not speaking, to your room.
I stared at the lino, now noting how worn it was,
Spotted by cigarette burns; a decade of greasy staining:
One corner was scuffed up and broken.

Your father put down his newspaper
and brushed some crumbs off his sleave.

The door closed slowly behind you.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 16th. - 19th. 2008. - August 2nd. 2012.
Re-Written and re-titled August 8th. - 18th. 2014.

A version of this poem titled London 1966 was published on my Blog in 2012.
This new version more accurately represents the events, place and date. 
The poem is dedicated to a wonderful person.

(1) West Hendon Murder.. (2) Cut Out. (3) A Shared Nightmare. (Revised) (4) The Angry Voter.

                1.

  West Hendon Murder.


The War Memorial in York Park has been smashed down.

Soon the Park will be buried under apartment blocks.

Lip service is given to remembering the fallen
while the good life that they died for is squandered under concrete,
White slabs fit for graffiti.

The Poor Kids Playground, laid out where innocents died
By a Borough Council that cared for the plight of the lowly,
Makes way for penthouses built to appease the toffs.
An uneasy silence has supplanted the laughter of children.

The War Memorial in York Park has been smashed down.

The grandchildren of the fallen have lost their heritage.

They have been sold down the sewer by the Council
that should have worked Hard to protect them.

Farewell high ideals and sanity,
You are no longer required in a world grown rabid and  venal.
Welcome forgetfulness and anarchy.
Welcome the Paradise of the Fool.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 5th. - 6th. - 10th. 2014. 


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

                2.

          Cut Out.


Matisse
The bee does not sting as fiercely as you,
Your Colours drive me wild.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 4th. 2014.

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

                  3.

     A Shared Nightmare. (Revised)


Through a glass darkly I dream you
Dream hopes I must forsake

Flecked by sombre shadows
The mist dissolves the lake

I fear that we are drowning
and yet we dare not wake

Your voice cries out forlornly
Cries out across the lake

Our hands meet in the darkness
A cold dawn starts to break

Fingers melt like icicles
Melt back into the lake

Through a glass darkly I dream you


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 7th. 1980. _ March 14th. _ August 4th. 2014.
Revised December 18th. 2014.

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

                    4

       The Angry Voter.


          
           X


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
1965.

(1) The Gardener. (2). The Cathedral.

                     1.

          The Gardener.


Blue Hyacinth for Mr. Thompson
        who died last night
   when the north wind skirled
          in shrieking fits
        that woke his wife
and smithereened the lattice porch
       beneath his window.


 A pompous man who, every Christmas,
sprinkled wine and words over seed trays
to invoke his dream of Easter, and then.
 white chubby fingers working overtime,
  stuffed spring bulbs into treacle tins
   and gave them to his neighbours.

  Blue Hyacinth for Mr. Thompson.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 4th. 1963. - July 29th. 2014.

           ====================

                     2.

          The Cathedral.


        Twilight over London

A red streak masked by a black thumb


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 20th. 2014.

Midnight Goddess. (First Version).

I lift your photograph off the shelf
with a nervous hand.
I should have smoothed back
that wild tangle of auburn
before I adjusted the close up lens
and flicked the shutter open.

I was tracing an icon of you
through diffused lighting
and muted greys and blues;
but an icon can never be more
than a simple mirror image
of what the camera sees.
An ephemeral abstraction
discretely articulated
in the briefest
breath of time.
Such beauty must remain
a piece of fiction,
a smudge that mars the surface
of a simple square of paper.

I study deep the fragile solitude
of startled, half closed eyes,
black in their hooded alcoves
of drear October shadow,
small elemental fragments
from the dark side of your moon.
And now I quietly wonder
as I lift the picture up
to kiss the faded outline of your lips,
If you can still recall the vows you
whispered
that long, myth laden night
of rain and thunder,
before you left my house that final time
to catch the early train.........................



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 1st. 2012. - July 18th. - 19th. 2014.

Futility. (New Version).

I cut open the Gourd
to reveal a wasteland of seed

One thousand plants that shall never be grown

Ten thousand mouths that shall not be fed

A taut womb barren
but cursed by hope

Mothers crouched among the ruins of Gaza

Eyes bright with hunger
Lips black with pain

Ten thousand veiled faces
imploring the sun

Ten thousand scarred hands
lifted in prayer

The voice of Rachel shrieking in Ramah

The beauty of Iman calloused by gunfire

I cut open the Gourd
to expose the raw flesh

The skin is rough to my fingers like sandstone

The small oval seeds remind me of tears


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
July 10th. - 11th. - 14th.  - 15th.2014.

This is a poem of protest, within the history of my family there are, and have been, Christians, Muslims and Jews. There are also secularists, and the family is mainly left wing or liberal in politics. I feel torn apart by the conflicts in the Middle East. The nations with the most efficient, brutal and powerful armies do not get my vote. It is the oppressed civilians I care about. The blood soaked children crying in the hospitals.

Three Poems. (1). Sufi Meditation. (2). June Night. (3). Post Modern Beauty. (I am the Duchess of Malfi still....).

                        1.

              Sufi Meditation.


Muted colours of a Pastoral Symphony;
The language of simplicity.

Fingers touching the hem of a sleeve.
A glance that does not need explaining.

All things straight forward,
Stone walls defining territory.



But that is in a far off country;
A distant time zone.

Here we only know the desert,
Contours splintered in the heat haze;

All things roughly covered over,
Nothing straight forward.



I draw the face of Rumi in the sand;
A gust of wind scatters the fine grains.


Trevor John karsavin Potter.
June 20th. - 21st. - 24th. - 25th.- 27th. - 30th. 2014.

========================

                        2.

                 June Night.


Last night
Midsummer rain awoke us

Black petals
Softer than eiderdown.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 23rd. 2014.

============================

                       3.

         Post Modern Beauty. 

(Duchess." I am the Duchess of Malfi still".
Bosola. "That makes thy sleep so broken". 
John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi: Act 4.)
                       =====

Mona Lisa`s face without the smile, yet flawless,
never to be scarred by age or exposure to the sun.
Groomed for the cat walk, the camera`s prying eye.
A fashion plate image refracted through amber glass
as the doors swing open wide, spilling the wintry air
deep into the pub. She was not seen to enter then, but
for a moment her face flickered in the alcove mirror
like a faded video image.

                         Candle light obscured her finest features,
Giovanna moved among the deepest shadows.

                                     Unsure for a moment where dreams
begin or vanish, or when reality transmutes into an impromptu
theatrical performance, I put down my glass and left the sanctuary,
hoping to spy her in the milling throng.

                                                                           Was that her
there, dancing among the shadows? Dancing alone in the ribald 
crowd?

The Barflies jostled each other like madmen in a Tragedy.
                                                       
                                                          I reached out to touch her shoulder;
but only the air seemed tangible, seemed real. I turned back into the alcove,
lonesome and defeated.

                                                       Something within me had died.
That delicate hint of perfume was perhaps the trace of a memory,
and yet I am certain that someone did mention her name. But then 
again, my hearing is somewhat decayed, I could have been mistaken.

Her face had quit the mirror.             The door slammed shut in the wind.

A shrill laugh echoed in the porch outside.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 5th. - 6th. 2012.
June 28th. - 29th. 2014.

The One Tun, Part Eight. New Rewritten Version.

Devon blue. The sunlight frisking flecks of dazzle across the waves. Torbay placid, the yachts gently bobbing, Moses Cradles resting on the waters.I am sitting on the harbour wall waiting for the sleeping town to wake up. Barely one hour after dawn in June, the sun already hot and brilliant. I had traveled overnight by train from London, the rail carriage stinking of stale smoke and damp. In 1965 British trains were, to my knowledge, the dirtiest in Europe. It was good now to be out in the fresh air sipping Orange Squash and eating the last of the sandwiches. The food had been packed for me the evening before by Mrs. Harris. I was trying to locate her runaway daughter. A rumour of a possible sighting had hastened me down to the West Country. I sat on the harbour wall trying to focus on my next move, but I was almost too tired to think. A crowd of seagulls were clamouring overhead, keen to steal some remnants of my banquet.

I was no stranger to Torquay. I had family living in the centre of the town, but today I did not want to be seen by them; I could not be diverted from my mission. Zoe had run away from home once before; my task was to try and locate her before the police were informed by her father. Her family and friends did not want her to be locked away as a young offender. She was a feisty, articulate and highly intelligent fifteen year old, not a feral street kid bereft of hope and ambition. The law enforcers did not always recognize the difference. Unfortunately the boy she ran away with was rumoured to have a heroin habit, so we had to act quickly. I could see the keys turning in the locks and the iron doors slamming tight, the guard dogs barking.

She had left London holding a small travel bag and a kitten. We had all been together in the Classic Cinema Tottenham Court Road. Her artist brother paid for the tickets. The kitten behaved remarkably well. From time to time he would wiggle and take a peek at the giant screen, but made no attempt to break free and scarper. This fur ball was not my friend however, I received a small scratch when I tried to hold him while ice cream was purchased. Suddenly Zoe announced that she needed the toilet. Apparently both the kitten and the bag had to accompany her. She did not return.

I became uneasy after just a few minutes, but her brother was so deeply engrossed in the film that he hardly noticed the time passing. Once out of the cinema however he rushed straight to the nearest phone box and started to ring as many relevant numbers he could think of. No one could tell him where Zoe was. We enquired at The One Tun, but the early evening crowd were clueless, a state of affairs that we should have expected. Some did know the truth however, but were sworn to secrecy. She was at number 12 Tottenham Street, a five minute walk from the pub and her obvious destination. So obvious in fact that we did not think to search there. That tenement block was the bolt hole of Fitzrovia`s remaining Beatniks and illiterati, probably the most bohemian address in London. Zoe and her companions remained there for only one night. They were soon on the road to Devon. At some point on the journey the kitten decided enough was enough and took his own route to liberation. Cats and hitch hikers are not good companions. The boy friend did not last much longer either, which was probably all to the good.

Rufus and I returned to his parent`s home to break the bad news. and within a few hours we had both commenced our travels, separately searching for his sister at opposite ends of the country. I did not find her in Torquay, but just a few miles along the coast in Plymouth I caught sight of a note she had penciled on the wall of a pub. "I am the only sane person in this place," a typical Zoe observation. She was probably right about that sweaty hole in the wall.

After nearly three weeks of travel and living off her wits she returned home to Hyde Park Mansions, tired and unrepentant. Within hours the police were informed, and she found herself locked away in the Young Offenders Institution a sort of naughty school kids zoo in a quiet part of Paddington. Fortunately she did not have to stay there long, A relative she greatly loved became her official guardian. She moved into his home in Kingston Upon Thames. He took her on camping trips to Istanbul and Afghanistan. He was a Hippy before the concept had been invented. Zoe had won the freedom to be the person that she wanted to be, a gift that she prized above all others. She remained an extraordinary person for the rest of her unconventional life.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 19th. 2014.  - August 9th. 2020. 

       .