Three Poems. (1) Russian Summer Holiday. (2) The Remnants of Shirley`s Home. (3) Young Christine.(No.1)

                         1.

    Russian Summer Holiday.


The grey bearded man is very fat,
His paunch the size of a whiskey barrel.

A quartet of girls sway in a circle;
The steps of the dance their prime concern.

If his feelings get hurt they wont give a damn;
Their somnambulant trance weaves a graceful pattern.

Sand smothers their legs in tobacco yellow
As they drift on the pulse of their private dream.

Down by the farm beside the seashore
A fox lies in wait for the farmhands to sleep;

And the sun turns the ocean to molten iron
As it sets behind the bare black hill.

The quartet of girls wander home together.
The grey bearded man glares up at the moon.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 24th. - February 8th. - 14th. - 28th. 2016.
February 28th. 2017.

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                        2.

The Remnants of Shirley`s Home.


     Between bent trees blistered by age and fungi,
A deserted caravan, tomb like, rotting on it`s side
Under a halo of flies.

                                        When she read my stars
Did the old gypsy woman foresee this far off day?
A grey haired man standing by her door,
                A wedding bouquet cradled in his arms?
The field of stones now her hermitage?

I did not think to ask such things at that time,
Concerned as I was only with my fate
   And the wife I would one day marry.
"My daughter" she said, in answer to my question.
"And you two shall be rock solid in your love,
                                  As safe and strong as houses".


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 23rd. - 28th. 2016.

for Josephine.

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                       3.

          Young Christine.(No.1)


Pink snow of April blossom;
Your smile glimpsed through my window.
Tomorrow we shall clear the fragile drifts.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 29th. 2016.

(1) The Tip of my Lifeberg. (2) Meeting Old Du Fu at Tea Time.

                          1

          The Tip of  my Lifeberg. 


  The actress, the poet, the poor gypsy girl;
         The kisses, the coffee, the beers.
Oh so jolly romantic.- Oh so frantic with tears.

         I cannot tell you the rest of my story,
I must check the clock before time disappears
       And I tumble downstairs on my knees.

 Just grab a ballpoint and a wad of old paper
        And scrawl any ending you please.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 22nd. 2016.

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                        2.

Meeting Old Du Fu at Tea Time.


This book has brought me back to old time China:
I listen to the white haired words of the Ch`ang-an poet,
Pull a chair up to the table, make myself at home.

The granting of this interview is most fortuitous.
The footsteps that I followed over the wet grass
Led to a single pillar,

                                   The inscription tells me nothing,
Just a few simple words that praise a public servant,
No mention of his poems, no hint he might be famous.

The purchase of this book has brought him home.
Now he is really with me, if only in words on paper.
Now he is closer to me than my mother`s father.

Du Fu bequeathed his thoughts; my granddad only photos,
Grey grained printed shadows that do not show his voice.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 2nd. 2016.

(1) The Parting.(Revised) (2).Commonplace Tranquility.(Revised).

                     1.

           The Parting.


You departed at lunch time,
Hat not at the usual angle,
Shoulder bag swinging like a sail.

Loneliness does not suit me,
I sit as still as a stone.

A bird with a broken wing
Could not be more frightened,
More uneasy.
Every sound in the near locality,
The Victorian streets and alleyways,
Plainly hostile.

I go indoors to make a cup of coffee.
The gentle bubbling of the percolator
Brings some peace of mind;
But your abrupt departure is hurting me like hell.

Saying goodbye never has been easy,
Even if just a weekend or one day
Pass before the key turns in the lock,
Or the dog goes hyper hearing the clang of the bell.

Meanwhile I think of phoning long term friends,
But their disembodied voices
Reverberating in the earpiece
Accentuate the pain,
Makes distance a reality.
Love, distance really matters.

I turn off the radio
Raw toned Bruckner hurts my troubled mind.

I sit and dream the scent of your long hair
Lingering on the pillow,
Warming our cold bed.
Your northern vowels, so soft and ever youthful,
Heard in every room.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
15th. - 16th. February 2016.
December 3rd. 2016.

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                      2.

  Commonplace Tranquility.


  Leonardo can go skulk in dusty corners,
Cervantes can hang his lance up in the hall,
  I have turned my back on the European Renaissance,
And now find beauty in common        everyday things.


A muslin curtain slung across a window,
A knife,
              a spoon,
                            a paper cup,
                                                 a plain white bowl,
                                              a sturdy stoneware jug,
A makeshift vase loosely filled with flowers,
A well scrubbed kitchen table.


    Observing simple objects, simple moments
    cools perspectives            pacifies my mind,
                                                 Hints at pure Satori;

                                                                       
                 Cherry blossom in a Kyoto garden;
      more precious to me than my rarest books.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 5th. - 18th. 2016.
December 3rd. 2016.

This poem represents the very heart of my every day philosophy.

Two Poems. (1) Lily plus belle. (2) Thinking of Georgy Ivanov.(Revised)

                           1.

                Lily plus belle.


        Your eleven year old niece
Wants to be a grown up woman,
Reinventing her face with make up
As she leans into the mirror,
Elbows pressed against the glass.
      Her desire to seek perfection
Creates an impudent red scar.


Such affectation could be dangerous
Especially when she gets to dreaming
Of a life she does not know.-
                       The drunken poet, old Li Bai,
Came to grief in a placid river
When he leant across the gunnels to embrace
A bright reflection of the moon.


He thought that he had witnessed
The features of the perfect courtesan
Sparkling in the evening waters.
        Her skin as smooth as porcelain
Polished until it dazzles:
Her painted lips an impudent red scar.


And the air was full of music and wild laughter
As he slipped unnoticed beneath translucent waves.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 11th. - 12th. 2016.

For Josephine and Ivy.
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                        2.

  Thinking of Georgy Ivanov.


When I get washed in the morning I stare at the glass
And think random thoughts about the world as it is.

I get very bored with conventional folk,
Whatever they say does not really matter.

You don`t have to be young to write fierce poetry,
You just have to learn to be self aware;

But that old yew tree against the wall
Could outstay any words or bits of paper:

The church in it`s shade is eight hundred years old,
But the tree itself is a century older.

Most folk only chatter to please themselves,
They are entranced by their mirrors, and that is all.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 13th. - 14th. - 27th. 2016. 

Written after reading some poems by the great Russian poet Georgy Ivanov, but not in imitation, it is just that my midwinter mood was responsive to his personal zeitgeist.  

Between Two Winter Storms. (Revised)

Today the sky is sackcloth and ashes.
Early spring blossom smothers the earth.

Gaunt trees sway like desolate women
Gathering flowers for a stone cradle.

Ice tears fall hour upon hour
Into a roofless row of houses
Boarded up ready for the wrecker`s ball.

The concrete paths have cracked like china;
The cherished gardens are thick with bracken;
The front doors bang in the truculent wind.

The Routemaster bus takes me deep into town;
I cannot keep my eyes away from the window,
Nothing is how it was last summer.

I note that the street is packed with strangers;
The Bloomsbury Squares unkempt and padlocked,
Their coral red roses hacked down with a saw.

The Empire had lost the Mandate of Heaven,
I read in my book on the Han Dynasty.

Last night the storm smashed slate tiles and fences. . .
I could not find a moment to sleep.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 6th.-7th. - 10th. 2016.

I was on the way to visit the Chinese Porcelain collection at the British Museum when the ideas for this poem came to me. Coral Red is the name given to some plain colour artifacts, so you can make up your minds as to whether the hacked down roses are natural plants or vandalised works of art. I would also like to mention the poems of Du Fu. I originally gave this poem the title After The Storm,but then I read the weather forecast and discovered that the storms were not over, more high winds were predicted. This poem is both personal and political, like all things in life.

(1) Elisabeth. (2). Homage to Wittgenstein.

                       1

                Elisabeth.


Watching you from the alcove
I could never have really guessed
How close to death you had been.

Tonight you danced in the bar
Like a headstrong child at play,
Not a grandma with cervical cancer.

Perhaps your time in intensive care
Put you back in touch with the dreams
You lived for when a youngster;

The park your natural environment
Where you played every hour of the day
Until stars appeared in the sky,

And where once you fell flat in the stream
While chasing a pert butterfly.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 3rd. - 4th. 2016.

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                        2.

  Homage to Wittgenstein.


Don`t think, look!
The flowers are full of dew;
An insect is drinking.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 22nd. 2016.

(1) January 31st. (New Version). (2) Harrow Weald Bus Station.

                     1.
            
            January 31st.


Already it is the last day of the month,
the New Year stacked with school books,
not now an infant snuggling at the breast,
eyes half closed, torso smeared with blood,
mouth wide open, shaped like an angry O,
but a schoolboy carrying mobile phone and scycle
as he trots off to his lessons.

I sit here shivering at an open window
and count greenshoots nudging through the rough.
I wish I was now outside in the garden,
but in kinder weather, trees coming into bud,
House Martins, louder than my radio,
watching a wary cool cat saunter passed;
and frost a scrap book memory.

An ice bright moon floats high above the rooftops
immune to our enslavement to the seasons
and the irksome ticking of the bedroom clock.
My girlfriend phoned to say her time had passed
and that she has been sick the last few mornings
so that she cannot leave her room.
                                  I take a look at the calendar,
count back the days to when she last lay with me,
then flick the pages forward to September.

"Is this all that life brings to the table", I quietly grumble,
"a rushed parade of births and deaths and marriages?"
I visualise a smart kid playing football,
a schoolboy larking as he quits his class.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
31st. January 2016. 
Completely rewritten 31st. August - September 3rd. 2016.


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                      2.

Harrow Weald Bus Station.        A collage.


The old man toddling home,
His bags packed with shopping,

The schoolkids do not see him,
They rush by in a swarm.

Life is precious to him.
A pale sky turning crimson.

The high street packed with traffic.
The sound of sirens shrieking.

The school kids bunch together,
They fight to board a bus.

The old man turns a corner:
A parked car blocks my view.

Far above the rooftops
Floats the lonely moon.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 22nd. - 23rd. 2016.
This poem is just a list of events written down as they happened in real time
at dusk on January 22nd.The old man is aged 91 and is a long time friend.