Violette.

My beautiful friend,
The very first person I struggled to walk to
When I was an infant.

So little remains, books littered with snapshots,
Blurred shadows printed on flimsy white paper,
Two girls standing in a doorway.

No where can I find your authentic smile,
The waves of laughter that shook the house
When you came to tea,

The vibrancy of your hug.

But these are the things that haunt me always,
Not the print of your name in a slab of marble,
Nor the honours heaped on you after death.

In my mind I still see the girl with dark hair
Who swung me up high onto her shoulder
To kiss my forehead.

I could not imagine that you were a soldier,
That in less than eight months the Nazis would shoot you,
Crush your ashes into the rubble

Under the road into Ravensbruck.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 10th. - 11th. 2015.
Rewritten April 25th. 2017.

Violette Szabo was the first person that I ever walked unaided to when a small child. This was at my maternal grandmother`s council house in Cricklewood, North West London. Although I was so very young I have never forgotten her vibrant personality.

Dream Portrait. (Revised).

Last night I drew your portrait in my mind,
A delicate pencil sketch
That scarcely marked the white paper,
A flat image bereft of depth or shadow.

I have almost forgotten the colours in your eyes,
The tender lilt of your Irish voice,
The remarks that kept me in order;
But the furrow that sometimes formed upon your forehead,
Especially when I hurt you, haunts me always,
Much like a jagged scar that never fades.

This attempt at veracity was a dismal failure,
It was, after all, only a dreamed up image, distinctly monochrome,
A hazy outline of who I think you are,
Much like a memory not touching the heart of the matter.

Time past I could recall a clearer image,
A Kodachrome portrait precise in every detail, as taken from real life:
But now I am old it seems safer for me to pretend
That I cannot remember true facts, only their pale facsimiles.

And perhaps I have been dishonest for much of my life,
Not staring truth straight in the face, but always askance,
And therefore have lost my way, my sense of purpose,
And the person I dared to cherish.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 7th. - 8th. - July 24th.2015.

(1) The Destruction of the Museum. (2) Lunar Eclipse.

                     1.

The Destruction of the Museum.



The museum had been torched to a shell in less than a day. -
The art works destroyed in the fire represented innocence
And were deserving of rescue,
But the money that purchased those art works was cold and cruel,
Minted in African blood.

Power was imposed with an 18th. centuary nonchalance,
The locking of shackles;
The slash of a pound sign across a slave boy`s back;
The shriek of a child in the face of the Boss Man`s anger
As he casually mauled her mother with manicured hands
That daily caressed the whip.

At night these same hands would lift intricate porcelain figures
With the care of a spider spinning a delicate web
In the cool of an Autumn sun down,
Or the gentleness of the museum`s distraught curator
Sifting through heaps of ash.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 3rd. - 4th. 2015. 

The full title of this poem is, The Destruction of the Museum that was once a Planter`s House.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

                  2.

      Lunar Eclipse.



An eclipse is never total
The sun absorbs the errant moon
Into it`s bright corona -
A crystallized circle of light
Glistening like a diamond ring
Displayed on a black cushion.

This is how love is revealed
At those times when we try to conceal it -
A distinct but fragile aura
That illuminates averted faces
When we try to ignore each other -
Try to keep close to the shadows.

Thus it was at last night`s party
When you walked by me not speaking
Into a room packed with strangers -
Crowd fillers with too much to say.-
Only you brought life into the action -
Gave me a reason to be there -
Edged my dark world with light.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 19th. 2015.
April 29th. - 30th. - May 4th. - June 7th. 2015.

I was thinking of two very distinct occasions when writing this poem.
The eclipse of 2015 and an after show party in 2007.  

Renoir.

Renoir
Crucified by arthritis
But still in love with young beauty

Sun light reflected off skin
Pale as African ivory
Dazzling blue eyes
Opened wide to new life

Adolescents bathing
Larking in spring water
Auburn hair flying
Clothing scattered to the Mistral

And affirming his existence
The crippled man forcing
A luxury of pigments
Into the neutral canvas

The terrifying blankness
The negativity of Hades

His fingers curled up tight
As if nailed onto a cross
His pain beyond all help

But the sun still on his face
Dazzled eyes bright with laughter
The fierce light not yet dying


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
April 26th. - 27th. 2015.

German Shepherd.

Your German Shepherd had proved to be
                                                  unpopular
Lying on top of your single bed growling
While we two were trying to make love.


That night the moon was an electroplated
                                                         penny
Lobbed up high into a misty sky
Beyond all hope of spending.


I wasted one whole hour staring upwards
Waiting for that dog to shuffle slowly
Into the unmown field that was your garden.


Eventually he loaned us some small space,
And taking advantage, we kicked him out of
                                                             doors
And turned the key behind him.


                  Peace now reigned,
                  Even the sheep were sleeping,
                  The horses had their heads down.


Side by side we watched the distant stars
Glittering far above the opened window;
They mocked the lustre of the false faced moon.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 16th. - 21st. 2015.
For J P.

Listening to Scriabin`s Reverie. (Revised).

Burdened with sound
The air becomes dark, like the depths of the ocean,
Slow waves moving overhead.

The audience sways gently to the moods of the music,
A tight packed shoal tugged at by currents
Stronger than muscle or mind.

This, perhaps, is a type of ecstasy,
Not religious, but purely physical,
Weighted down to time and space
Like the extreme emotions of love.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
19th. - 20th. April 2015.

Two Poems. Night Vision. (21st. Century Medea). Christmas Eve - Fermanagh. (Revised).

Night Vision. (21st. Century Medea}.


   
                 1.


Every night I dream how sad you are

Crying into your pillow
But afraid to pick up the phone


                  2.


Tawny hair shielding downcast eyes
like a curtain
When you kissed me

But now the mask is in place
And nowt that I do can shift it


                 3.


I am reminded of that portrait of Germaine Tailleferre
Wearing a small French beret

But the style does not suit you

You seem to be hiding from life
Seem to be always in mourning


                 4.


Once you were not so shy
Once you were full of laughter

Your dress bunched up for a pillow
The damp hay in your hair
Dark eyes shining brightly


                 5.


Do you still write home to the children?

Do you still mention my name?



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
15th. April 2015.

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


Christmas Eve - Fermanagh. (New Version).



There are no bright colours here -
The sky - pale as a shroud
Soaked in tears -
The sun - a dim white eye
Half closed among vast clouds.

The bone thin winter trees
Reach up like gnarled hands
Pleading -
Old saints desperate in prayer
Their faith undying -
Their epoch slowly fading.-
The blank horizon pressing down
Onto an ancient landscape
Haunted by a thin pale moon.

The hills are full of ghosts -
Dumb echoes of time past -
Dark tales of abject poverty.-
Clouds spread wide like canvas sails
That once drove famine ships.

Awaiting their congregations
The grey stone village churches
Stand like border forts -
Gaunt symbols of partition. -
I was not born here -
But I might as well have been.-
I am at home in a frontier landscape
Where nothing is fixed or certain.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. - 25th. - 30th. December 2014.
January 2nd. - April 16th. 2015. 
Edited and revised May 21st. 2015. - March 19th. 2016.

Impressions noted down in Enniskillen and Belcoo.