(1) Three December Poems. (2) Advent - tide 2015. (3) In the Art Class.

                1.

   December Midnight.


Paper lanterns on a hill;
The houses look so small tonight:
Somewhere snow is falling.

                  *

   December Pruning.


Christmas is almost upon us:
I cut the rose bush down
To the size of a crown of thorns.

                   *

            The Fall.


Blood red roses on the path,
The final debris of last summer
Spilt upon brown leaves.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 3rd. - 11th. 2015.

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                   2.

        Advent - 2015.


             How mild the night is!
Although it is now
             raw hearted December
the wind is soft upon my cheek.

                   *

Blue flowers are breaking
        through the stone path,
Widening cracks between
        the broad flags,
Creating a surface that is so
               uneven,
It has become dangerous to
            walk upon.

                    *

The path was laid in early September.
The path was laid with consummate
                                                     care.

This strangely gentle Advent weather
        Perhaps warns of a darker story
        Than that revealed in Bethlehem.
The shepherds kneeling like true saints:
        The wise men bearing sacred gifts.
        The baby sleeping in a manger.

In that year the winter was bleak and chill.

                     *

        How mild the night is.
        How mild and still.
        How mild for mid December.
Perhaps,
when the sickle of the waning moon
Slits the birth cord of the new born year
These southern hills will be flecked with
                                                         snow.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
12th. - 14th. December 2015.

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                     3.

        In the Art Class.


Sitting still, watching aircraft
Losing height over London.
Sounds of charcoal scratching paper.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
4th. December 2015.
 

(1) Walking on Water. (2) After the Storm.

                 1.

  Walking on Water.

I stand in the shadow of the Cathedral.
                                                                     Buddha walked on the waters.
                                                                     Jesus walked on the waters.
The Cathedral floats on an oak raft
Crafted by Saxon monks
Eight hundred years after the birth of Jesus,
Fifteen hundred after the birth of Buddha.
The monks were building a vessel, a stone crib,
A ship of faith to float the Word of God
Far above the rugged fields,
The farms, the woods, the quarries,
The smokey quagmire of the local town.
                             But the monks were out of touch with the local people,
                             They did not beg for alms at the Market Cross.
Jesus sat in the barrooms, spoke to strangers,
Mixed with outcasts,
Just as the Buddha had done
Squatting with quiet demeanor, with begging bowl and staff
Among the swarming flies,        the prostitutes,       the market porters,
The roaming cattle, the cut and thrust of the vendors.
                                                               The monks had missed the point,
                                               Miracles don`t really matter,
                                               But the poor are always with us,
Hustling for drinks and spare money,
                                                            A bit of sex on the quiet,
The price of a seat on the bus.
                                                                 And for them a cold stone crib
Is a darker,         sadder place.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 8th. - 9th. 2015. - January 13th. 2016.
Thinking of the history of Winchester Cathedral, among other things.
The Spacing on this copy is tighter than it should be, the spaces should be much wifer to get the proper perspective that I was trying to create.

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                 2.

    After the Storm.


Low sun over winter rooftops
Soaked by last nights rain.
Somewhere a stray dog barking.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
December 8th. 2015.

(1). December 1st. (2). Kyoto. (3). November Morning.

                1.

      December 1st.


Now it is December,
The last of the roses
Crumple in pairs

So like the old folk
Sat on the beach,
Mourning the sun.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 1st. 2015.

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               2.

           Kyoto.


Last night I dreamt of Kyoto;
Za Zen every morning:
A lunchtime walk in the hills.

                  *

The sky pale as a faded print;
Your hand resting on my shoulder:
A tear fell. I thought of London.

                   *

You handed me an autumn rose.
Burnt love letters falling apart.
Hot ash whirling in cold wind.

                   *

The last kiss you ever gave me
Cold as winter in Kyoto.
Look up, the geese are flying.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 1st. 2015.

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                   3

  November Morning.


Damp grey sky;
Poplars, thin brushes
Stored for a rich palette.

                   *

The colours return.
The sun glints off the ice pool
Arrows of longing.

                   *

Blank the winter canvas.
The artist lifts his sable brush,
Spring returns.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 21st. - 23rd. 2015.
.

(1) Chinese Porcelain. (New Version). (2) On The Dance Floor.

                 1.

    Chinese Porcelain.



Reflected in the mirror behind us
As we set up another selfie,
The collection of earthenware pots
Displayed on the highest shelf
Above the worktop in my kitchen,
Delicate Chinese porcelain
Placed next to Irish stoneware
Rough as the hills of Antrim.

And I wonder, as we peer at the photographs
Flashed up on the miniature screen
Held tentatively in your fingers,
That such a roughcast face as mine
Thumbed out of the clays of London
Does not seem an incongruous partner
To the gracefully sculpted contours
Of your refined Parisian beauty.

I turn and look up at the porcelain
That once seemed so perfect to me,
And note how the finest of glazes
Can be flecked with miniscule flaws,
And that an often praised figurine,
May in a moment seem awkward and ugly.

You stroke my face with deft fingers,
Elegant as a ballerinas.
Perhaps I should replace my collection
With artifacts of your choosing.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 19th. - 21st. - November 30th. 2015.
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                    2.

    On The Dance Floor.


Dressed to kill,
Stuck in a hive of strangers,
Waiting.

Legs
White as china clay
Shown to advantage.

Dress,
Black as a priests habit
Hiding nothing,

Only the top of a stocking,

Only the sting.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
19th. November 2015.

(1) Red Hawk. (2) The Casual Desecration of Quietness. (3). November 26th. 2015. (Revised)

               1.

       Red Hawk.


Red Hawk circling overhead
Watching the stillness move:
Winter can be beautiful.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 23rd. 2015.
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                2.

The Casual Desecration of Quietness.


This field is just too beautiful to be here;
Concrete houses must be built right now
To box newcomers in,
Row on endless row,

So bring on the diesel diggers,
Uproot the grass, the trees, the meadow flowers;
Smash the flagstones,
The path on which we took our tranquil walk

Last Sunday morning early
To watch the lapwings wheel
Above our heads
In ever decreasing circles.

This scene is forfeit now, a memoir to be confided
To a closed book; a plain truth left unsaid.

Reality is a manmade concept,
The lapwings simply are.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 19th. - 20th. - 25th. 2015. 
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                3.

  November 26th. 2015. (Revised)

            Morning.


Outside my bedroom window
The streets are bright as summer;
The trees wear withered shrouds.

             
             Evening.


You gently place your hand
upon my shoulder.
Grey moon sheaved in mist.
Still the bare trees.


               Night.


My room a magic box of quietness.
Your soft breath strokes my cheek.
The telephone rings in a far off land.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 26th. 2015.

The Red Hawk is dedicated to Malcolm Evison.

(1) Young Lovers.(2) Park Street 1 a m. (3) Breaking Through.

                 1.

 The Young Lovers.


The beautiful people in this photograph
Would now be more than one hundred years old;
Shadows printed on paper
Looking at me, seeing nothing.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 19th. 2015.
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                   2.

     Park Street 1 a m.


Face in the dark,
Chalk white on black
Slightly smudged.

We move closer;
A porcelain mask
Defined by moonlight
Slowly emerges.

Can this be
The woman I met
This morning
In the park?

You walk on by,
A stately presence
In no way artificial.

I call out your name.
You smile.
The mask shatters.
White shards streaked with black.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 16th. 2015.
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                    3.

     Breaking Through.


Between bare trees
The lights of houses;
A chessboard of lanterns
On a cold, raw night.

                *

I knock, then enter your room;
Gone again the cold nights,
Gone again the sorrow.

                  *

Face turned away;
A single tear
Under her eyelash.

                   *

Her hand in her sleeve,
A single leaf
Spared the rough wind.

                   *

Patterns of moonlight
Across her face;
Torn, the silken drapes.

                    *

You came to me in the hot night
Dressed in a kaftan of patterned lace,
A glass of water in your hand.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 11th. - 14th. 2015.
July 4th. - November 12th. 2015,

Paris 13/11/2015.

  Paris 13/11/2015.


Paris, City of light,
City of Love,
City of Elegance,
Soaked in the blood of the innocent
By the soldiers of unreason
Plying their trade in the night.

The destroyers of true beauty,
The haters of human liberty,
The purveyors of vicious tyranny,
The shock troops of the dark.
Fighting against enlightenment
On behalf of a cruel mythology
Not found in any ancient book.

I am not angry with the murderers,
I pity them, but loathe their deeds.
I weep for their mothers and fathers
Searching the mortuaries of Paris
For the remnants of their sons,
Searching for the heaps of torn flesh
Among the bodies of the murdered,
The innocents that they killed.

Paris, my second home,
Once more the shadows are spreading
Through your elegant streets,
Your tree lined boulevards.
Turn on the spotlights with full power
So that we do not lose our way,
Do not succumb to the dark.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
14th. November 2015.
For all my French friends, especially Grace, Sylvie and Siegfried.