Mayhem Nights and Dreams.(Revised).

Dripping down from the darkened ceiling
Invisible hair of stalactites overhang the childs face
As she dreams of feral Gypsies,
Elves, seal skinned Silkies,
The hidden high wire artistes of the night
Dancing through the air above her head,
Or sliding down the ice cold stalactites
From one ephemeral world view to another
Without a by your leave,
Without an airline ticket,
Without a visa or a valid passport.

And while the wild child sleeps they fill her mind
With torrid dreams of fantastical lovers,
Disguised as urbane pirates;
Of dogs and cats and horses
Invited home to supper;
Of changelings hatched at twilight
When the Barn Owl swoops;
Of tantrums orchestrated to scare off pesky mother.

Well, that is her real world,
The world we share with her
When we ditch our daylight talk of mortgages,
Of debts, of risky deals,
Of stocks and shares and phantasmagoric money;
Of bale outs and witless promises.
Her night world of wild dreams is our true world
Where we masquerade with Puck among veiled shadows
In a fierce pursuit of anarchistic freedom
Under the feckless moon.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 5th. 2016.

Written after enjoying a performance of Midsummer Night`s Dream at The Globe Bankside. Also, in the mix of day to day life and the controlling undercurrent of our dream world, which would like to overturn all order with supernatural violence, anarchistic, not anarchic, is the appropriate word to use in this poem.

(1) In the British Museum.(Revised) (2) The Stone Paste Pot. (3) April Snow.

                       1

    In the British Museum.


Blue and white ceramics,
Small moments of absolute quietness
In a room packed with chattering tourists.

I am reminded of last Sunday by the lake,
Only the sound of a stone skimming the surface
Making me look up from my book.

I had put aside my copy of Hamlet
And was reading Omar Khayyam in the twilight
To bring some peace to my mind.

But just now, as I studied a vase, Iranian 17th. Century,
I heard that woman nearby talk of Ophelia.
That woman with the odd imperious accent,
So like yours when you were young.

And in an instant I became aware of the spidery cracks
Deep in the ancient glaze,
The split in the rim of the vase.

"So that`s how it always is", I silently cursed,
"Love has never been a reliable peace maker,
And rocks get thrown without warning".


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 2nd. - 3rd. - 4th. 2016.  

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                 2.

  The Stone Paste Pot.


This blue pot is a single sturdy poem,
Not quite complete, the handle missing,
The Arabic inscription like a wave
Disturbing the still water
But not reaching the shore.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 2nd. - 3rd. 2016. 

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                  3.

              
                April Snow.


                 April Snow
A veil covering a young brides face
             To hide her tears.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 4th. 2016

(1) A Girl Born Under the Bright Stars.(Revised) (2) Two Poems About Mirrors. (Revised)

                         1.

 A Girl Born Under the Bright Stars.


I could not keep you from my mind
All through last night.
The bedroom clock ticked in the chilly darkness
Reminding me that now I live alone
How empty this house is,
An old brick shell stocked with musty shadows.

I recalled that February evening long ago
When you came quietly into this hostile world
As if on tip toe, fingers clamped to lips,
Eyes screwed tightly shut, hair plastered flat,
And just one fragile cry, one try out of your voice
As you lay, a helpless victim in the strong hands
Of the homely midwife;
And then your strange, exhausted, unreal silence
After the fierce hard work of being born.

After the midwife I was the first to hold you,
A small raw pulse of life
lodged in my nervous arms
As though my youthful strength was your new castle,
Your granite keep, your fortress of tranquility.
"Why is she here with me, not with her father?"
I asked my quiet companion,
A country girl with dazzling Irish eyes
And a strange flair for dreaming future times.
"Ah, one fair day I think that you will wed her,
Once you have stopped your roaming ways, that is".
And for that moment I really did believe her,
Caught, as I was, in the magic of that hour.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 30th. - April 5th. - 27th. - 28th. 2016. 
May 7th. 2016.

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                          2.

   Two Poems About Mirrors.
                      
                     Swans.


The swans live in a world of
                                  mirrors
Studying their reflections
Day after day
As they glide across the placid
                                          lake
Not knowing where is up
Or where is
down

                   
                      *

         Picture Perfect.


Love
When you look into the mirror
Do you see me?
& when I look into the mirror
Do I see you?
We are opposites in everything we do,
Opposite, yet equal:
Two separate pieces of a jigsaw puzzle
That joined together
Restore the broken picture:
Not the substance and the shadow;
Not the image and the eye,
But
2 reflections caught in a polished surface
Fitted with immense care and precision
To a blank                          divisive wall.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 13th. - 14th. - 29th. 2016.

Beatrice & Benedick, Premonition of a Winter Wedding. (Completed Poem).

Lady disdain
Under the rim of your hat your eyes sparkled
Reminiscent of dancing fireflies.

You had not heard a single word of the sermon,
Nor scanned the book of my mind,
But your smile was exquisitely prescient.

It was certainly somewhat strange
That you should enter the crowded chapel
At that very moment.

The minister had just mentioned weddings
And I suddenly thought of your name
For some inexplicable reason.

Perhaps I was recalling that time
When we stood hand in hand by the river
Overawed by a black cloud of starlings.

But sometimes I manipulate a memory,
And your conduct has often proved shady
Especially to me and my friends:

And perhaps our shared interest in scrying, -
The secret trysts with a recondite gypsy, -
Was partly to blame.

I remember the cards we picked over
As we sat white with fear at her table,
Yet I rarely believed what she told me.

Your opinion however was different,
You took note of all that she whispered
To dissect her poison at leisure.

She revealed you would light up all venues,
But why should you take this as gospel
In every conceivable detail?

You are not a formidable actress
Although you danced aged nine on the telly.
You have done very little since then.

Speak truth sweet lady, slyness suits infants merely
Not adults with love on their mind:

 Fireflies light the woods at midsummer,
In winter they vanish away.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 10th. - 17th. 2014. - September 8th. 2015. - 
April 23rd. - September 21st. 2016. - January 14th. 2017.

This poem has taken a long time to complete; it was only when I realised the connection to Much Ado About Nothing that I could complete it. When people are truly deeply in love they so often defend themselves against the inevitable because they are more scared of losing their independence than gaining their hearts desire. But a soul mate is a true mirror and cannot be put aside.

Hot Nights - Cool Love. (Revised)

   Hot Nights - Cool Love.

(With thanks to Birthday Boy Mr. W S).



Shout it from the rooftops?
No, do not do that.
Speak low when you speak love
And I shall hear you clearly.

Next time you lift the telephone
Just whisper a few words.
I do not need a Show Band in my lug
To know that you are with me.

A few soft words at midnight
Should calm the savage breast.
A mix of Jets and Sharks and Claudio
Just ain`t worth the candle light.

So lady disdain, please don`t bludgeon love with words,
If you read that loud is proud, go burn your library.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 24th. - 25th. 2016.

In both Much Ado About Nothing and Romeo and Juliet true love is hidden until brought
into full view by disruptive and potentially violent social pressures.

(1) Palmyra Recalled. (2) The Rogue Doorbell. (Revised) (3) Cold Spring.

                    1.

       Palmyra Recalled.


I travelled down town to visit a memory,
A stone arch erected in Trafalgar Square
Untainted by the raw blood of Palmyra,
The heads of scholars mangled in the sand.
I touched the arch and dreamed the history,
The ancient texts and buildings we have lost,
Scrubbed out by the cruel winds of the desert,
Crushed to dust by crowbar, mallet, axe.

I count among my forebears western Shia
Who would not break a cup, a vase, a pot
Without recourse to tears, self recrimination
Because the labourers art had been defiled.
They could never bomb a town, murder a child
To sanctify this complex world for Allah.
For them divinity led them through the dance
And blessed the kisses husbands give their brides.

My family has always known that truth is beauty,
And not crushed ashes scattered under grass,
And so I touch this virtual Roman arch
To try and find the beauty we have lost.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 20th. 2016.

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                    2.

  The Rogue Doorbell. 


Ringing, without being touched
by the wind or an outstretched finger,
my doorbell, apparently with a mind
of its own, shocks me out of my nap,
my body curled tight in the Windsor chair,
my head pressed down on the table.

Perhaps my dream was a dynamo,
powering thought with invisible muscle
to ring the bell and wake me up
before my neck became permanently cricked
and my face was rubbed raw on the wood;
or perhaps there had been a minor earthquake

that displaced the delicate plastic buzzer
and shook the hallway with carillons.
I will simply remark, that when I lifted the curtain
there was no one in sight on the moonlit pathway,
the gate remained locked, the way I had left it,
with the latch pressed firmly down.

I settled back in my chair to think things over,
and then I recalled I had been dreaming of Leila,
an old flame I have tried to put out of my mind,
but my heart skipped two beats when I remembered her name.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 18th. - 19th. - 22nd. 2016.
August 29th. 2016.

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                    3.

           Cold Spring.


             Hazy moon
The eye of God full of tears
  Over the arch of Palmyra


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 21st. 2016.

Music Frozen in Lost Time.(Revised)

Listening to Satie
I dream the smile of my Sufi love
Who renounced me
To dance
                To sing her way
Into the the Hyacinth scented hands
Of Allah.


And I must sit alone at night,
A book of verse
                           A cup of wine
But Thou no longer with me,
Only the shadow of your smile
Sheltering my fragile dreams from moonlight
That would freeze me into forgetfulness,
                           Into a deep anarchic terror
As I sit at home
                           A reluctant hermit
Quarantined in my loneliness.


Listening to Satie,
Music frozen in lost time,
I dream the girl that once I knew
Skateboarding down a hill in Brighton
                            Fists punching scorching morning sunlight,
Hair caught free
                            By the salt white seaside wind
Of early summer,
My photo lodged inside her pocket
Then her secret talisman.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 16th. - 17th. 2016.