(1) St. Patrick`s Day Blues.(Revised) (2).The Lost Poems. (3) Young Christine.(No.2)

                   1

St. Patrick`s Day Blues.                
                 

Saint Paddies Day,
A gun held to the Winter`s forehead
By a green fist.

The birds woke early for the dawn chorus,
Coughing out sublime chirrups
In the cold damp air,
Their fags left smouldering in the all night cafes
While their nests fomented with deserted chicks.
I turn over once more in my snug old bed
And recall the horror of Catholic incense.

It was the longed for day of the first communion,
A hundred children queued up for the Bishop`s thumb
In a church filled to the rafters with scented smoke
Very much like a curing factory.
I ran without stopping to the Holy Well
To wash my face and suck fresh air.

It took me two days to recover from the effects of the smoke,
I lay in bed choking,
Eyes blood red,
Tongue as thick as a wad of leather,
Bruised ears throbbing with a thousand heartbeats.
That was not a blessing, that was Dante`s fire,
I thought as I stared at the bathroom mirror.

And now back in London I watch the clock
Ticking mournfully on my bedroom bookcase
Like a stern Headmaster counting out doom
Over the hands of demented students.
Saint Paddies Day is my First Day of Spring,
I should be out counting hidden crocuses,
Sprinting up hill,
Laughing at the sun.
But this world I live in is purely mechanical,
Everything run to a man made calendar
Not flexed with the seasons
Nor the heart`s desire.
Thou shalt work in a factory till thou art eighty,
Thou shalt do without thinking what billionaires tell thee.
I turn over once more in my worn out bed
Having thrown the clock straight out of the window.

St. Patrick`s Day blues, St. Patrick`s Day blues,
I will sit all alone in my sunless garden
And strain my ears for the hum of the bees,
Much softer sounding than a Thompson`s Gun.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
March 17th. 2016. - May 9th 2016.
Note:
There were more than one Saint Patrick in the proverbial Dark Ages, but there is only one St. Patrick`s Day, so I am assuming the Feast Day is for ALL the saints of that name.

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                   2.

       The Lost Poems.


The moment that I`m buried
                        My poems will be orphaned,
Cut off from their Parish,
Abandoned children camped out on the street
Between flat cardboard end - boards
Beneath a pile of garbage,
A plastic cup extended to the strangers
                                    That hurry quickly by
Hands slapped down into pockets,
Heads turned awry to look at oddball things,
Too easily understood: -
A dog prancing on three spindly legs,
A fat girl swaying crazily on stilts,
A Copper dancing with the Lollipop Lass
Upon the Zebra Crossing,
                          A cow snagged on the moon.
Such entertainment always beats plain books,
Or meanly attired poets,
                                        For instant accolades
And snapshots flashed around the world to friends,
Meanwhile, my poems, having lost their father,
Will glance wanly up at heartless folk
Scurrying blindly home to packaged suppers
Or snooker on the Box,
And pray that some kind hearted thoughtful scholar
Might scoop them up, and hug them in his arms
In one almighty Love Fest
                                        Like an adoptive daddy,
As if he really cared about their prospects
And thought of them as though they were his own.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 16th. 2016. 

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                     3.

   Young Christine.(No.2)


Pink snow of April blossom;
Your smile glimpsed through my window.
Memories are such fragile strangers.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 7th. - 10th. 2016.

Thoughts Before Sleeping.

Words are not essential
Only your smile,
Only the sound of your heartbeat
In the dark.

Words are not essential
To learn love.

Words are not essential
To know that I am needed,
To know that you are with me,
To know that I am loved.

The silence when you`re absent
Is true Hell,
A Hell that even Dante did not view
When guided by sad Virgil.
The winds that twist and furrow Arctic ice
Are easier to endure.

Words are not essential.
Words are not essential to find love.

At night you dream you hear the roses grow,
Growing in a land I cannot reach,
A land of secret gardens.
For hours I lie awake,
A stranger close beside you.
I keep silent watch for dawn and your return.

Words are not essential.
Words are not essential to know love.
Only the touch of your soft breath
On my shoulder.
Only your smile when you first awake.

The awareness of your presence by my side
Is now everything I need.
Words are not essential for our love.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 12th. - 13th. - 14th. - 2016.

(1) Landscape at Dusk. (2) Bought in the Charity Shop.(3) Evening.

                1

Landscape at Dusk.


Duck egg blue sky:
Woodsmoke grey clouds:
Geese soaring above tall trees:
Winter edging into spring.
The artist draws thin curving lines:
Now the cold rains fall.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 4th. - 6th. - 8th.- 10th. 2016.
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                  2.

Bought in the Charity Shop.


I have just bought a Japanese pot,
The most beautiful pot in the Charity Shop,
                                         And the cheapest.
The manageress did not know the real worth of the pot,
She attached a low price to it because it weighs so little,
Unlike the expansive object with the twisted spout
As large and heavy as a rock garden rock
              And smothered in stencilled roses. -
              My Japanese pot is hand painted,
Abstract patterns drawn on a mottled background.
The manageress could not see the beauty of this vessel,
Such simplicity eludes her.
               To her my pot was just a waste of shelf space.
               I have placed it on my desk next to my Buddha.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 7th. - 8th.-10th. 2016. 

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                       3.

                Evening.

Bury me with the Gypsies
Under the wide cold sky
Where piebald ponies roam.

Bury me with the Gypsies
When the Lark splits open the clouds
With torrents of song.

Bury me with the Gypsies
Deep in the Midland loam
Between two wild eyed sisters.

Bury me with the Gypsies
To await the fall of the stars
When the Earth burns up in the sun.

Bury me with the Gypsies
To the beat of a muffled drum.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 6th. - 8th. - 10th. 2016.

I have decided to call all of my poems consisting of 14 lines sonnets, even though they break all the accepted rules.

Through the Looking Glass. (Original unrevised version).

I found myself on the mantlepiece
Floating through the mirror on a breeze
That parted the malleable glass
As though it were a fog
                                      or a skein of silk
Falling apart at my touch.
"Where have you been?" my friends asked
As we strolled through Carnaby Street
On a cold mid winter evening
Among crowds of fashionable girls.
"To the future" I replied,
                 "I have visited the 21st. Century
Where today is just a legend,
The Beatles ancient history,
And this street a commercial byway
Marginalised by the Tory Magnates
                           And deserted by the young".
They looked at me and laughed,
"Trevor is always full of stories",
And we entered the smoke filled pub
Packed with mods and mouthy film stars,
             Con artistes by the score,
The occasional legitimate actor,
And fought our way up to the public bar.
The chatter faded and became distorted,
The smoke was now a muslin curtain
Dissolving into a mirror
That I drifted through, a weightless Pinewood phantom,
                                 back into my Living Room.
"The nineteen sixties were fine", I quietly whispered,
"Back then we were full of hope,
We dreamed a utopian future,
                                 A brand new Platinum Age
When all folk could be truly equal
And flowers would blossom out of the throat of a gun".
I stared deeply into my mirror,
Noticed the flaws, the film of grubby dust motes,
That speckled the rippled surface
Like the marks on an old woman`s skin.
"Who is that now looking at me?
Does that person have a genuine history,
Or is this grey haired vision merely an ugly dream?"
For a moment the image was young and lively once more.
            It giggled and puffed a cloud of smoke in my face.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 3rd. - 4th. - 5th. 2016.

Note. I originally wrote Golden Age, but changed it to Platinum Age because people in the 1960`s tended to think in terms of the media, ie the TV, Pop Culture, Fashion, the latest Ism. I was thinking both of Platinum disks awarded by the then, very powerful music industry, and the comic strip view of the future, (think Dan Dare), that many people had at that time, when climate change was not an issue in the forefront of most people`s thinking. Everything was going to be glossy and shiny. Poverty was going to be abolished, as was violence by the ruling classes and ideological warfare. The dream remains, but now it is down to earth and eco friendly.  
This poem has now been superseded by the version published on August 25th.

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.