1.
Aphorism Murmured at the Edge of Sleep.
You whispered to me as I switched off the light,
"If you cannot remember being born,
perhaps you are not alive."
And then you laughed out loud under the duvet.
Laughing like a schoolgirl high on candy.
Loving you is another kind of dreaming.
In the workaday world you simply do not happen,
A clock ticking but seldom keeping time.
When I long for sleep you kick start into life,
A rock solid presence, not a will o the wisp in denim,
Not a flurry of feathers called out by the band.
I held you first as a newborn baby.
Now I hold you as a full grown woman.
The chrysalis forty years a breaking.
I wondered then what you would be like at forty,
Little thinking that we would share our lives together.
I imagined a princess, not a highly strung punk rocker,
I thought the chick I waltzed around the ballroom
Would stay like that forever.
And oh yes, I do remember being born,
And so I can be booked among the living.
It was a journey packed with trauma, so very like our love.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 11th. 2016.
For Josephine.
------------------------------------------------------------
2.
Rain at Midnight.
Rain forecast on the radio
A steady sound of clapping
No footprints on the patio
At night the closing of doors
Can become a private ritual
A prayer against the darkness
Not spoken but enacted
Just moments before sleeping
While rain taps on the patio
A steady sound of clapping
Trevor John Karsavin
January 14th. 2016.
In Japanese religious practices, including Buddhism, to clap can be a part of praying.
Thursday, 14 January 2016
Sunday, 10 January 2016
(1) Watching War and Peace Adapted for TV.(2) My Mother`s Fine kimono. (3) Dragon. (4) A Note to my Son in Law....
1.
Watching War and Peace Adapted for TV.
Little snippets of War and Peace shown
on television.
Little shredded snippets, not the full fat book.
Torn leaves soaked in adolescent blood
falling
falling
falling.
Falling onto white white snow.
Nothing real. Nothing really Russian.
Plastic picture post cards flashed onto a screen.
Tourist Board Dickensian. English without tea.
And all the time I hear my great aunts voice
Crying in the wilderness of London.
"Oh show us who we are, please do not
mock us.
For Christ`s Sake show us who we really are!"
Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
January 10th. 2016.
------------------------------------------
2.
My Mother`s Fine kimono.
My mother wore a kimono
Even though the eastern war
Had made Japan unpopular.
The dragon sketched in silk
Was a small defiant symbol
From a culture bombed and burned.
Politicians come and go
Like shoddy goods they are expendable,
But a burnt out temple cannot be replaced.
Nor can an ancient manuscript of haiku
Praising resting by a mountain river
More highly than a skill required in battle.
A thoughtful neighbour washed the fine kimono.
The dragon melted in a sea of colour.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 9th. 2016.
Early in her life my mother learned a love of Japanese culture. Her pride and joy was the fine kimono of the poem, and she was criticised for wearing it during the latter part of the Second world War by less understanding, less forgiving neighbours. The kimono was ruined in the wash.
--------------------------
3.
Dragon.
The dragon in his lair is not alone
Despite eternal solitude.
Distant scholars have remembered him.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 13th. 1971. - January 9th. 2016.
For David Bowie.
------------------------------
4.
A Note to my Son in Law to thank him
for obtaining Three Tang Dynasty Poets.
Three Tang Poets have arrived in the post.
They are all old men who drink lots of tea.
If I stumble on their long beards I am lost forever.
Meanwhile I await the arrival of old Wang Wei.
Transport is slow. His ox is the problem,
It just wont negotiate the gateless gate.
Meanwhile I sit and contemplate my wayward garden,
Daffodils in January break all the rules;
Next summer I may travel through a barren land.
Thank you for these books, they are perfect for my library,
When the blossoms wither I shall quietly sit and read,
That ox groomed and tethered, out of sight and out of mind.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 8th. 2016.
An email sent to my son in law thanking him for the safe delivery of a book.
Watching War and Peace Adapted for TV.
Little snippets of War and Peace shown
on television.
Little shredded snippets, not the full fat book.
Torn leaves soaked in adolescent blood
falling
falling
falling.
Falling onto white white snow.
Nothing real. Nothing really Russian.
Plastic picture post cards flashed onto a screen.
Tourist Board Dickensian. English without tea.
And all the time I hear my great aunts voice
Crying in the wilderness of London.
"Oh show us who we are, please do not
mock us.
For Christ`s Sake show us who we really are!"
Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
January 10th. 2016.
------------------------------------------
2.
My Mother`s Fine kimono.
My mother wore a kimono
Even though the eastern war
Had made Japan unpopular.
The dragon sketched in silk
Was a small defiant symbol
From a culture bombed and burned.
Politicians come and go
Like shoddy goods they are expendable,
But a burnt out temple cannot be replaced.
Nor can an ancient manuscript of haiku
Praising resting by a mountain river
More highly than a skill required in battle.
A thoughtful neighbour washed the fine kimono.
The dragon melted in a sea of colour.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 9th. 2016.
Early in her life my mother learned a love of Japanese culture. Her pride and joy was the fine kimono of the poem, and she was criticised for wearing it during the latter part of the Second world War by less understanding, less forgiving neighbours. The kimono was ruined in the wash.
--------------------------
3.
Dragon.
The dragon in his lair is not alone
Despite eternal solitude.
Distant scholars have remembered him.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 13th. 1971. - January 9th. 2016.
For David Bowie.
------------------------------
4.
A Note to my Son in Law to thank him
for obtaining Three Tang Dynasty Poets.
Three Tang Poets have arrived in the post.
They are all old men who drink lots of tea.
If I stumble on their long beards I am lost forever.
Meanwhile I await the arrival of old Wang Wei.
Transport is slow. His ox is the problem,
It just wont negotiate the gateless gate.
Meanwhile I sit and contemplate my wayward garden,
Daffodils in January break all the rules;
Next summer I may travel through a barren land.
Thank you for these books, they are perfect for my library,
When the blossoms wither I shall quietly sit and read,
That ox groomed and tethered, out of sight and out of mind.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 8th. 2016.
An email sent to my son in law thanking him for the safe delivery of a book.
Friday, 8 January 2016
(1) Stockhausen Recalled. (2) One August Bank Holiday Monday. A Lyrical Interlude.
1.
Stockhausen Recalled.
My voice went into the machine.
The composer played his trump
card.
An infinity of sounds emerged
Weaving new worlds in the air.
Hearken
how the new worlds developed.
Houses of cards rise and fall.
At last there is only the memory
Slowly degrading.
Permanence seems a reflection.
Loft high a well aimed stone.
Even the frame falls apart.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 6th. - 8th. 2016.
---------------------------------------
2.
One August Bank Holiday Monday.
The first night that we spent together,
Our hearts were singing like the woodland birds
At bright midsummer.
Your body that soft night was lithe and supple,
Slim as a windblown Weeping Willow
Pictured on Chinese porcelain.
You moved beneath me in the summer stillness
To the twinned pulsing of our mutual breathing
And whispered covert words of gratitude
Into the scrunched up pillow.
You were not scared,
And goaded me with kicks and thumps to love you,
Although you once had spied from a dark corner
The slow and painful birth of your small sister;
Your mother screaming, the bedspread soaked in blood.
You held me close all night,
Denied me sleep,
Kicking me whenever I turned over,
Turning my back on you.
Alas we knew the morning would be bitter,
We had to make our separate tracks and travel
To long haul destinations
Too many miles apart.
Indeed we had no clue
When next our paths would cross
And we could snuggle down in bed together
And squabble the whole night through.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 22nd. - November 28th. 2015.
December 5th. 2015. - January 3rd. 2016.
This is a complete rewriting of a poem first posted in June 2015.
Stockhausen Recalled.
My voice went into the machine.
The composer played his trump
card.
An infinity of sounds emerged
Weaving new worlds in the air.
Hearken
how the new worlds developed.
Houses of cards rise and fall.
At last there is only the memory
Slowly degrading.
Permanence seems a reflection.
Loft high a well aimed stone.
Even the frame falls apart.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 6th. - 8th. 2016.
---------------------------------------
2.
One August Bank Holiday Monday.
The first night that we spent together,
Our hearts were singing like the woodland birds
At bright midsummer.
Your body that soft night was lithe and supple,
Slim as a windblown Weeping Willow
Pictured on Chinese porcelain.
You moved beneath me in the summer stillness
To the twinned pulsing of our mutual breathing
And whispered covert words of gratitude
Into the scrunched up pillow.
You were not scared,
And goaded me with kicks and thumps to love you,
Although you once had spied from a dark corner
The slow and painful birth of your small sister;
Your mother screaming, the bedspread soaked in blood.
You held me close all night,
Denied me sleep,
Kicking me whenever I turned over,
Turning my back on you.
Alas we knew the morning would be bitter,
We had to make our separate tracks and travel
To long haul destinations
Too many miles apart.
Indeed we had no clue
When next our paths would cross
And we could snuggle down in bed together
And squabble the whole night through.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 22nd. - November 28th. 2015.
December 5th. 2015. - January 3rd. 2016.
This is a complete rewriting of a poem first posted in June 2015.
Monday, 4 January 2016
(1) Stockhausen on the Radio, A fly in the Room. (New Version). (2) Bus Stop.
1.
Stockhausen on the Radio, A fly in the Room.
The small black dot
Whizzing about this room
Is not a mote in my eye,
It is a single insect, a
speck of ash
Left over from last summer
That thinks now is spring
Not winter,
Not the season of rest,
Of forgetfulness,
And that the kitchen window,
Steamed up and frosty,
Is the icy face of the sun.
This insect is displaced,
A refugee from distant times,
A hot house country
Beyond recovery,
Beyond imagining.
This buzzing feral dot,
An ink blot on the greyness,
The smoke stained ceiling paper,
Reminding me
That when I chucked my school pen
In extremis
One nerve wracked day in class,
Only that day of many
In the packed and rowdy classroom
Could not be forgotten.
Fly, instinct nags hard at me
That I should swat you dead,
Splat your little head,
Change you into garbage;
And yet we should be friends,
We are both outmoded here;
(Me, four decades passed my prime,
You, a snap shot of September);
So let us keep the peace
Come hard nights and icy weather.
The clocks are ticking fast,
We can squat down in this fusty pad together.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 4th. - 12th. 2016.
---------------------------------------------------
2.
Bus Stop.
Girl with a thousand futures,
Why do you look on me so kindly
As I wait here at the bus stop?
I am not exactly God`s Gift,
An old guy wrapped in a rain coat
Who even the whores hurry by.
But I am grateful for your kind looks,
They remind me of that moment
When the whole world was my oyster,
Believing myself young and gifted
Until I prised open the oyster shell
And dared to look inside.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 5th. - 6th. 2016.
Stockhausen on the Radio, A fly in the Room.
The small black dot
Whizzing about this room
Is not a mote in my eye,
It is a single insect, a
speck of ash
Left over from last summer
That thinks now is spring
Not winter,
Not the season of rest,
Of forgetfulness,
And that the kitchen window,
Steamed up and frosty,
Is the icy face of the sun.
This insect is displaced,
A refugee from distant times,
A hot house country
Beyond recovery,
Beyond imagining.
This buzzing feral dot,
An ink blot on the greyness,
The smoke stained ceiling paper,
Reminding me
That when I chucked my school pen
In extremis
One nerve wracked day in class,
Only that day of many
In the packed and rowdy classroom
Could not be forgotten.
Fly, instinct nags hard at me
That I should swat you dead,
Splat your little head,
Change you into garbage;
And yet we should be friends,
We are both outmoded here;
(Me, four decades passed my prime,
You, a snap shot of September);
So let us keep the peace
Come hard nights and icy weather.
The clocks are ticking fast,
We can squat down in this fusty pad together.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 4th. - 12th. 2016.
---------------------------------------------------
2.
Bus Stop.
Girl with a thousand futures,
Why do you look on me so kindly
As I wait here at the bus stop?
I am not exactly God`s Gift,
An old guy wrapped in a rain coat
Who even the whores hurry by.
But I am grateful for your kind looks,
They remind me of that moment
When the whole world was my oyster,
Believing myself young and gifted
Until I prised open the oyster shell
And dared to look inside.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 5th. - 6th. 2016.
Friday, 1 January 2016
(1) Footnote. (2) First Footing.(3) Bliss. (4) Japanese Tea Ceremony.
1
Footnote.
This year in which I write,
Is now last year somewhere else;
The ticking of the clock wears me out.
2
First Footing
New Years Day.
Breaking out of the cocoon.
All the house is sleeping.
3.
Bliss.
Japanese porcelain
Gives me a sense of peace
No Buddha or Christ
Can give.
Put the roses over there, by
the chair, the wicker chair
by the window.
Put them on the small table:
The rough old vase will do.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 31st. 2015.
January 1st. 2016.
--------------------------------------
4
Japanese Tea Ceremony.
Welcomed the New Year with
the Tea Ceremony,
More holy than the Eucharist.
No wine was spilled.
No bread was broken.
No images of ancient cruelty.
Just a peaceful hour or two at home:
Rain soft upon the window,
Daffodils blooming in the garden
More abundant than last spring.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 2nd. 2016.
Footnote.
This year in which I write,
Is now last year somewhere else;
The ticking of the clock wears me out.
2
First Footing
New Years Day.
Breaking out of the cocoon.
All the house is sleeping.
3.
Bliss.
Japanese porcelain
Gives me a sense of peace
No Buddha or Christ
Can give.
Put the roses over there, by
the chair, the wicker chair
by the window.
Put them on the small table:
The rough old vase will do.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 31st. 2015.
January 1st. 2016.
--------------------------------------
4
Japanese Tea Ceremony.
Welcomed the New Year with
the Tea Ceremony,
More holy than the Eucharist.
No wine was spilled.
No bread was broken.
No images of ancient cruelty.
Just a peaceful hour or two at home:
Rain soft upon the window,
Daffodils blooming in the garden
More abundant than last spring.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 2nd. 2016.
Wednesday, 30 December 2015
(1). In Memoriam. (2). The Silence of Nam June Paik. (New Ending).
1.
In Memoriam.
*
Tying up my shoes, I remember when
You first taught me to lace them,
A red rose in your hair.
*
The party over?
The guests are leaving?
Must I turn out the lights?
*
That shoe floating in the pond -
Is it not one of the special pair
I bought for you last summer?
*
Do not remind me of that Judas kiss
Among bare willows in the park:
High up the swallows flying.
*
Poems locked for seven years
Inside a Highgate sepulchre
Rebuke forgetfulness.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 6th. 2014. - December 30th. 2015.
------------------------------------------------
2.
The Silence of Nam June Paik. (New Version).
Broken records
Shredded spools of tape
Voices of an era
Lying smashed
Upon the floor
Now everything you said to me
Is dust for the hoover
Little scraps of black
The last of your love letters
Hammered into splinters
Words of false regret
Drifting dust of lies
Outside my shuttered window
A dog barking
At imagined whispers
Echoes of your footsteps
Not dinting the snow
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
December 6th. - 7th. 2014. - December 30th. 2015.
August 7th. - December 27th. 2016,
Original version of this poem was posted in January 2015. This new version is the finished poem.
In Memoriam.
*
Tying up my shoes, I remember when
You first taught me to lace them,
A red rose in your hair.
*
The party over?
The guests are leaving?
Must I turn out the lights?
*
That shoe floating in the pond -
Is it not one of the special pair
I bought for you last summer?
*
Do not remind me of that Judas kiss
Among bare willows in the park:
High up the swallows flying.
*
Poems locked for seven years
Inside a Highgate sepulchre
Rebuke forgetfulness.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 6th. 2014. - December 30th. 2015.
------------------------------------------------
2.
The Silence of Nam June Paik. (New Version).
Broken records
Shredded spools of tape
Voices of an era
Lying smashed
Upon the floor
Now everything you said to me
Is dust for the hoover
Little scraps of black
The last of your love letters
Hammered into splinters
Words of false regret
Drifting dust of lies
Outside my shuttered window
A dog barking
At imagined whispers
Echoes of your footsteps
Not dinting the snow
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
December 6th. - 7th. 2014. - December 30th. 2015.
August 7th. - December 27th. 2016,
Original version of this poem was posted in January 2015. This new version is the finished poem.
Tuesday, 29 December 2015
The Daily Grind.
The Daily Grind.
My washing machine is growing long in the tooth.
It seems to have innards made from defunct dentures
That grind together awkwardly
Crunching on seeds and bones.
Whenever I turn it on
The noise is frightful,
Louder than heavy metal,
An ersatz military band,
Leather boots scraping on sand,
Metal studs grinding glass,
Ball bearings rusting together
In winter and foul weather.
But nothing ever gets crushed,
Mangled, chewed into lumps of cud,
Nipped in the bud.
Everything comes out clean,
White as the pre-dawn snow,
Spotless, just as it should be,
Exactly as mama had ordered,
Not a tooth mark to be seen.
Ah
My washing machine is so very nearly half dead.
Oh give it a crutch. Perhaps it will sit up and beg.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
29th. December 2015.
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