(1) Recollections of Christmas in Fermanagh. (2) Christmas Eve - Fermanagh. (3) This Easter.(4) Explaining Why I wrote "This Easter".

                 1.

Recollections of Christmas in Fermanagh.


There are few bright colours here;
The sky, pallid as a cheap shroud
Wet with a mother`s tears,
And torn by her frenzied fingers.
The sun, a Discalced Carmelite`s face
Observed behind a lattice.


At Easter time, old folk remark
That melancholy Angels chant
Strange wordless hymns on holy nights
Inside the locked cathedral;
The Golgotha carved above the door,
Lost in a cloud of lilies.


The coppice of gaunt lakeside trees
Sway ghostlike in the evening mist
As daylight drains away,
They stretch their gnarled and twisted arms
Like children begging for stale bread
From pampered strangers.


This Christmas Eve in damp Fermanagh
The silky clouds are scudding high
Out of a slate horizon.
The homeless man crouched in the market
Counts loose change into his glove
Then slips into his cardboard bed.
He feels the raw wind cut his cheekbone,
He burrows down, just like a mole, and in
                                 a moment falls asleep.

Soon the whole town is counting sheep
While the Angels guard the silent streets.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. 2014. - March 19th. - 21st. 2016.
This poem is a companion piece to Christmas Eve - Fermanagh that I am here republishing because they should be read together.

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                2.

Christmas Eve - Fermanagh.


There are no bright colours here -
The sky - pale as a shroud
Soaked in tears -
The sun - a dim white eye
Half closed among vast clouds.

The bone thin winter trees
Reach up like gnarled hands
Pleading -
Old saints desperate in prayer
Their faith undying -
Their epoch slowly fading.-
A blank horizon pressing down
Onto an ancient landscape
Haunted by a thin pale moon.

The hills are full of ghosts
Dumb echoes of time past -
Dark tales of abject poverty -
Clouds spread wide like canvas sails
That once drove famine ships.

Awaiting their congregations
The grey stone village churches
Stand like border forts -
Gaunt symbols of partition.-
I was not born here -
But I might as well have been.-
I am at home in a frontier landscape
Where nothing is fixed or certain.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. - 31st. 2014. - January 2nd. - May 21st. 2015. - March 19th. 2016.
Belcoo - Enniskillen - London.

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                  3.

          This Easter.

This Easter is losing Christ,
It is all about St. Pearse,
St. Connolly, St. Collins,
And all the other martyrs
Who dared not turn the cheek
And died in tragic wars.

I shall make no comment on this,
Only mention while I may
That Golgotha has become a daily
                                          scandal
With crosses overshadowing every
                                             street;
Dead infants mocked by soldiers
                           taking snapshots;
Great cultures torn apart
By bombs that fall on mosques and
                           ancient churches;
The shrines of Roman gods.

I once raised high the Tricolour for Ireland
But now I simply want to dream
                                      of peace
And place the troubles at the barren altar
And pray for some respite.
So please let us forget the savage past,
And sit at table with our foreign neighbours
To share the feast of love.

And oh yes, I must forgive old Micheal Collins
For teaching the whole world the arts of terror.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 21st. 2016.
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                     4.
Explaining Why I wrote "This Easter"    


I am criticising my own deep commitment to Irish Nationalism here, because I am nowadays aware how dangerous nationalism can be. It is a fine cultural ideal, but should be isolated from political violence.I have always deeply admired Michael Collins, and I was brought up knowing some of his relatives, but I am all too aware of how his fighting methods have been adopted and adapted by other less savoury individuals fighting for less honorable causes. I really do believe that "Jaw jaw is better than war war", that people should talk and not commence the journey down the road of extreme violence. Once a war has been started it is always very difficult to end it, and the end is never certain. The tragedy that is Syria, plus the toxic international repercussions, makes this all too clear. The Irish stand against British rule was entirely justified, and the men and women in the GPO in 1916 were great heroes, but the hundredth anniversary of the uprising will be on April 24th. 2016 not March 28th. I think that Jesus, Man of Peace, should be properly honored, and not have his most important festival overshadowed by national celebrations at this time when Europe is in danger of following the Middle East into the quagmire of violent political turmoil.

The day after I wrote the poem, and a few short hours after I set down this prose piece, came the news of the terrorist bomb attacks in Brussels. I rest my case.  

22nd. March 2016.

(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.