Winter nights offer no solace to the solitary.
I look deep into the mirror by my bedside
While trying hard to conjure something tangible
Out of the thickening dark,
The interwoven webs of threatening shadows
That hold clarity in pawn
And turn the crystal eye of memory purblind.
I imagine the materialization of my dreams,
A physical restoration of old hopes
Upon the murky surface of the mirror.
An ill defined image of my lover
Haunting the edge of consciousness
Where the sanctified and the sacrilegious meet.
I imagine a realization that I can almost touch,
Hold in the tenderness of my fingers
Like a cinematic image that seems so real
That it becomes real on the surface of the mirror;
A reflection clearer than a 3D picture
Projected down into the tangled dreamscape
Like a soft light filtered through a smoke filled theatre.
Stunned by your loss, the absence of your laughter,
It is your love that every night I search for
As I look deep, deep into the darkening glass.
I scan for your face behind my reflected face
In the sombre gloom, the veils of shadow,
The transposed inscape of the dusky mirror
That draws me deeper, and yet deeper, and deeper
Into the compromised sanctuary, the festering solitude
Of a savage hopelessness.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
20th. June - 4th. November 2003.
14th. - 18th. August 2014.
Thursday, 14 August 2014
Friday, 8 August 2014
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.
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.
Monday, 4 August 2014
(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.
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.
Tuesday, 29 July 2014
(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.
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.
Friday, 18 July 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.
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.
Thursday, 10 July 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.
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.
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
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.
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.
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