Leila (Revised Version).

1969.

Chorus:

Even we peaceniks adored her.
Even we pacifists loved her pure zeal.

So beautiful
She paid a surgeon to carve her face
Into a mask more commonplace
So that she could not be recognised,

So that she would not be known
For the icon she once was,
The flight 840 hijacker.

Hair wrapped in a keffiyeh
And holding a kalashnikov rifle
In her delicate feminine hands -
(An AK she never fired in anger),
Our fierce Palestinian Angel,
The girl snuggled up to her gun
In that refined, but frightening photo.

An image of cultural resilience.

A girl forced to battle unreason,
A girl forced to make a stand
When zealots stormed over her country
And stole her ancestral land.

A dream of the outcast made free.

Chorus

Even her detractors absolved her
From the anger they forced her to feel.
Even we pacifists loved her.
The Press made her into a star.


2015.            Coda.

Chorus.

That was a long time ago.
Since then there has been too much fighting.
Since then far too many deaths.
Too many men who would kill for an acre,
For a misinterpretation of The Bible,
"Love thy neighbour" put on the back burner.
The women left at home to cook supper.
The children shot down in the street.

But once a dream has been crafted
It cannot be unmade
But must remain intact
Within our memories,

The light of inspiration
Burning deep within ourselves
To guide our hope filled lives,
To sanction aspiration

Although the template is lost,
Although the image lies broken,
A relic of former times

Dropped in the desert sand

Strafed in the ruins of Gaza.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 27th. - 28th. - 29th. - October 2nd. 2015.

This poem is partly influenced by my reading of The Oresteia, as well as the famous photograph of the young Leila Khaled, taken before she underwent surgery, a deed of great unselfishness.

Eclipse of the Harvest Moon. Version Two.

Equinox moon
dragging her swollen body
through the harvest skies.

A blood red goddess
heavy with ancient children
that can never be born,

never be given life
in the cold heavens
above the fertile earth,

the fecund biosphere, so
vivid with pain and beauty
and rich beyond measure.



And we, true acolytes
in awe of this blood red moon,
walk in our mutual loneliness
under the autumn stars.

Under a rare conjunction
of moon and distant sun:
the crimson face of the goddess
cut through by a black edged knife.



As we walk we speak of the time
when you lay in the hospital bed
with our dead child placed beside you,

an infant perfectly formed
but cold and white as marble,
her heart too tiny to beat.

A victim of our imperfections.

A cruel and needless sacrifice
to the insanity of self love.



Thus we talk to assuage our grief
as we walk across mown fields
to observe the great eclipse,

a singular natural event
made holy by ancient magic,
the primitive dream of redemption.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
28th. September. 2015.
14th. October 2015

Two Poems. (a) Harvest. (b) The Widowers Complaint. (Revised versions).

           (a)

       Harvest.

              1

Alone
Stooping in the garden
Like a gnarled tree
Waiting for the axeman
to call


And you
Already lopped
Not a leaf
To remind me

             2

White flesh of wood
Spread
Over the russet pathway
Where once we ran
Larking
Looking for
                          (a place to lay your cloak)
A willow hung
Hide away


And the grandchildren laughing
their newness
through the old grove
unaware how autumn
brings such sudden changes

the pruning hooks

the Harvesters

the rasp of spinning saws

              3.

High overhead
a single swallow

Brief shadow on the sun


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
September 8th. - 10th. 2015.

-----------------------------------------
                (b)


The Widowers Complaint.


For the sake of propriety
Your son forbade us to meet -
although we were obviously
far gone in love
and had been so
for more than fifty years -
the chance to put an old wrong right
now made nigh on impossible

This is how the loyal offspring
(so caring and so loving)
like to manipulate their elders
once retirement age has passed -
Second childhood is perceived
to be hovering in the wings -
and happiness with a long term lover
ruled distinctly out of court

Dresden porcelain ornaments
displayed inside a cabinet
provoke a similar strict behaviour
from those rich enough to own them

Not to be tarnished

Not to be moved

Not to be placed beside
an inappropriate partner

Not to be exposed
in an unbecoming light

All signs of extra - mural frolics
kept under lock and key

But we who are old were young once
and have not yet lost the strength
to challenge those who would keep us
from our less than perfect selves

We can still kick up a rumpus
and foment the odd surprise


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 24th. - 25th. 2015.

Anna.

Kreuzburg liebeskind,
russet hair
(reminiscent of autumn leaves
pictured on my calendar,
the one purchased in Vermont
in 1964).
Feet of a dancer,
splayed but delicate.
Hazel eyes - smoky with sadness -
the smudge of tears -
searching deep deep - par blind into mine,
(a life raft of desperate questions
on her mind),
not fathoming an answer
but noting my ordinary fear,
my fear of being found out,
of being acutely known.

The morning you set out for home
the stone steps to the river
were awash with freezing rain;
the pathway through the park
concealed by fallen branches.

This scene was an epitaph,
an epitaph to our nascent love
born without a spoken language.
Our shared addiction to music
and the empathy of the dance,
had kept us on our toes.

But once the show was over,
(you speaking little English,
my Deutsch somewhat under par),
we relied too much on telepathy
and the simple slang of pop songs
to re - ignite the failing spark:

a touch of fingers in the dark,

a hug - a kiss - a laugh - a smile -
a sudden        doleful       glance.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 13th. - 18th. 2015. 

Internal Travelogue. (New Ending).

The planned engineering work on my mouth
will enable me to eat
grilled cheese sandwiches,
and perhaps
give me the confidence to kiss
your downcast eyes,
your black nailed fingers,
the red warning tapes
that are your lips.

Meantime the Circle Line rattles through the depths
that sinew London
with the taut griefs of anxious travellers
commuting to and fro.
I dream of Hades,
the darkness of Roman catacombs,
barricaded North Sea coal mines
poisoned by gas.
These visions flare on and off in my mind
like emergency lights passed speedily in the tunnel,
or grainy clips from half remembered films.

I fidget my analog wrist watch aimlessly,
and resist real contact with my fellow passengers
while staccato warning bells
start to clamour in my brain.
TOWER HILL NEXT STOP
repeated by an unseen actress
makes me think of Traitors Gate,
the photo of a stabbed child that made me vomit,
Sir Walter Raleigh waiting for the chop.
The hound now squatting by the sliding doors
exhales a smelly yawn,
then fixes me with a dope fiend`s look.

THE TRAIN TERMINATES HERE -
STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS.
The journey to see you is always a squalid chore,
an apparent loop line slowly going nowhere
as though I had travelled in and out of a madhouse
made from buckled glass.
Meanwhile that girl with an acrobat`s muscular thighs
has completely burnt out my eyes.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 13th. - 14th. 2012. - September 11th. - 12th. - 16th. - 17th. 2015.
October 18th. 2016. 

This is my vision of the Inferno. City life is Hell, but too interesting to let go of.

Autumn Pruning.

Sorry Mister Spider
I have to encourage the new growth
and you made your home in the old wood
that I must now cut down.

Next year I require fat loganberries
to cover with sugar and cream,
and I am less occupied with house flies
than you appear to be.

So forgive the use of these secateurs
that I brandish with such ease,
I am planning a cascade of white flowers
to entice my co workers, the bees.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 10th. 2015. 

(1) September Dusk. (2) Cabbage Fly. revised. (3) Love. (4) The Lion.

               1.

  September Dusk.


September evening

The sky like
a Chinese painting

black boughs
dropping
paper leaves



The copper sun
washed out
turning ochre

a bruised apple
burst
on the hard earth

tainted

breaking down



I walk alone              in the cold air

trying to get used              to my loneliness



It is now six weeks
since you died

Passed
like a withered flower
out of my life

yet tonight
I am sensing
the pressure of your soft breath
nudging my cheek

Your hand         clutching mine

warm as a midsummer morning


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 7th. - 14th. 2015.

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

                2

       Cabbage Fly. (Revised).


White as my notepad
I am tempted to write on your wings
A miniature monograph
On the history of flight.

But the moment I enter the Hot House
You seem to get wind of my meaning
And flit right up to the ceiling
Where you sit tight until I leave.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 3rd. - 4th. - September. 10th. 2015.

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

               3.

            Love.


Birthday gift
Secret
No more

Ribbons undone
Spread over the floor

A glass of wine
Spilt on the table

A torn cushion

A slammed door


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 5th. - 17th. 2015.

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

                4

         The Lion.



"It was a legal hunt"
The white man said.

The lion did not think so.

The lion is now dead.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 7th. 2015.