1.
Two Love Poems, Perhaps..
My little white yacht,
Beached on the shore of my heart.
Please do not sink little boat.
Please please please do not sink.
*
My little white bird
Perched high up in a window.
Your wings are clipped, little bird.
If you flap them hard you may fall.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 20th. 2016.
Written while listening to Erik Satie.
---------------------------------------
2.
Weekdays on the Northern Line. (Random notes scribbled on a journey).
The red blue and silver anaconda
Slid out of the tunnel,
A nightmare inflicted on the poor of London
Slicing through a deep moist wound.
How can I write love poems on the Underground
When such conceits come readily to mind?
The stations rattling by in the permanent darkness,
Linked by an unravelled loom of wires.
Perhaps the pulsing membranes deep beneath our skins
Are the best metaphors we can have for love?
A shadow clouding a face can mean many things,
But a look of pain is more loving than a smile.
I crouch low in my seat, trying hard not to be there,
My book left opened at "rode down to Camelot".
This subterraneum universe of whey faced people
Only comes to life when the lights go out.
I dream of gothic towers edged with beaten gold
Glinting under pale enamelled skies,
The world on the surface is made of steel and glass,
No chance that Elaine could encounter Lancelot.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 17th. - 18th. 2016.
Friday, 20 May 2016
Monday, 16 May 2016
(1) Injured Swans. (2) A Love Not Spoken.
1.
Injured Swans.
Love
Are you transforming yourself
Into a swan?
Flapping
Your shopping bags and the white
sleeves
Of your winter coat
Like wings?
You scampered across the empty street
Ahead of me,
Dropping your head so low
To avoid my gaze.
I was afraid
That you would trip and fall
On the sharp uneven paving stones
As you ran headlong
Without looking,
Hands grasping those long handled bags
In case they took off on the cold wind
Without you.
Your shyness so cruel it overcame
All common sense,
Forced you to turn your eyes away
From my quick glance
The instant that I came in view.
I feared you might be struck by cars,
By flying glass,
By sticks and stones,
The intricate ballet of cups and plates,
Of paper straws and plastic spoons
That spiralled through the air above you.
Love
Next time you wish to imitate
Swans rising from a troubled lake,
Or herons leaning into flight,
Chuck out your fear,
Take hold my hand,
Then we might leap the moon together
Or hug the stars.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 16th. 2016.
----------------------------------------------
2.
A love Not Spoken.
She phones me with her
thoughts,
But never says a word.
I know what she is thinking
Although no
words are spoken.
Her pale smile in a dark
room
Tells a book of stories,
All our yesterdays
In one small glance.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 11th. 2016.
Injured Swans.
Love
Are you transforming yourself
Into a swan?
Flapping
Your shopping bags and the white
sleeves
Of your winter coat
Like wings?
You scampered across the empty street
Ahead of me,
Dropping your head so low
To avoid my gaze.
I was afraid
That you would trip and fall
On the sharp uneven paving stones
As you ran headlong
Without looking,
Hands grasping those long handled bags
In case they took off on the cold wind
Without you.
Your shyness so cruel it overcame
All common sense,
Forced you to turn your eyes away
From my quick glance
The instant that I came in view.
I feared you might be struck by cars,
By flying glass,
By sticks and stones,
The intricate ballet of cups and plates,
Of paper straws and plastic spoons
That spiralled through the air above you.
Love
Next time you wish to imitate
Swans rising from a troubled lake,
Or herons leaning into flight,
Chuck out your fear,
Take hold my hand,
Then we might leap the moon together
Or hug the stars.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 16th. 2016.
----------------------------------------------
2.
A love Not Spoken.
She phones me with her
thoughts,
But never says a word.
I know what she is thinking
Although no
words are spoken.
Her pale smile in a dark
room
Tells a book of stories,
All our yesterdays
In one small glance.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 11th. 2016.
Tuesday, 10 May 2016
(1) The Displaced Chieftain. - A Lament.(2) The Nightmare of an Ancient Woodlander.
1.
The Displaced Chieftain. - A Lament.
An old man dreams of Scotland,
He wishes to be home
Beside the rushing waters
That shape the ancient stones.
He recalls his father`s fortress
Now sinking to decay
Deep in the wind shook forests
Where he used to fight and play.
He galloped upon Black Hunter
Each evening through the glen.
He became a champion horseman
Before the age of ten.
But now he is old and broken
Hunched up in a fireside chair,
So alone in an English cottage,
So haunted by fear and prayer.
He dreams that his ancient freedom
Has become a festering wound,
Like the scars in the walls of the fortress
That are slowly filling with sand.
He wants to rest unnoticed
Where the granite can hide his bones
Until the rushing waters
Break down the mountain stones.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 30th. - September 3rd 1982.
May 15th. 2008.
------------------------------------------------
2.
The Nightmare of an Ancient Woodlander.
I used to love my work deep in the forest,
But now I hate it.
Vigilant packs lurking in dark places
Haunt my days.
Red eyed, wolf faced, stealthy hunters
Kill for no reason;
Kill lost strangers who venture in their way.
Kill refugees stranded between bleak borders,
Caught without friends, guards, selfless protectors,
Guides with maps and rudimentary torches,-
The storm ripped trees crashing down around them,
Roots torn out,
Branches shredded like ruptured veins.
I used to love my work deep in the forest,
But now water meadows and lush pastures suit me
Where I can walk at ease among wise children,
Acolytes of the wild Diana:
But no hob goblins,
No mute Adonis chased by savage hounds,
No Oberon intent to steal a child,
Dare cross these hallowed fields.
I can walk at ease along the verdant pathways,
The still lake almost lost beneath the reeds.
I used to love my work deep in the forest,
But now dark forces out of my control
Have smashed my feral heart into a million pieces;
My dearest friends revealed as spiteful racists,
Their gentle hands compacted into fists.
It now appears I am the hated changeling,
An outsider fit for the firing squad,
Or prison camps built by a modern Theseus.
And because my long time lover is a Gypsy,
A girl with freedom etched deep in her soul,
A votaress of the wild Titania,
They harass us with curses, with two edged axes,
To drive us both from out the woodland green.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 28th. - 29th. - April 16th. 2016.
Reimagined May 10th. - 11th. - 12th. - 13th. - 16th. 2016.
Note to this poem.
The sources for this poem include two plays by Shakespeare, The Midsummer Night`s Dream and The Two Noble Kinsmen, the refugee crises in Europe and the rise in the activities of neo Nazis. The folk tales collected by the Brothers Grimm have also been an influence, especially those stories connected to the vast German forests. I once heard a radio talk in which it was suggested that Hitler and his cohorts were the darkest nightmares forged in the deep forests made actual, brought to visceral life, and it is true that the top echelons of the Nazi Party seemed to be occupied by creatures of myth rather than normal people. Other sources to this poem include the various influences that refugees have had on my family. My ex wife`s paternal grandparents fled the programs and the revolution that erupted in the Russian Empire during 1905, while my Greek Orthodox aunt had to leave Petrograd in 1918 because she had married an English diplomat, and the British government had sided with the Whites and not the Bolsheviks. Thirty two years later her brother died in Stalin`s Gulag. But the principle sources for this poem were the anti refugee diatribes that started to pollute the pages of facebook in late 2015 and early 2016, and the racist treatment that has been meted out to my fiance from time to time simply because her mother was born a Roma Gypsy.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 12th. - 13th. 2016.
The Displaced Chieftain. - A Lament.
An old man dreams of Scotland,
He wishes to be home
Beside the rushing waters
That shape the ancient stones.
He recalls his father`s fortress
Now sinking to decay
Deep in the wind shook forests
Where he used to fight and play.
He galloped upon Black Hunter
Each evening through the glen.
He became a champion horseman
Before the age of ten.
But now he is old and broken
Hunched up in a fireside chair,
So alone in an English cottage,
So haunted by fear and prayer.
He dreams that his ancient freedom
Has become a festering wound,
Like the scars in the walls of the fortress
That are slowly filling with sand.
He wants to rest unnoticed
Where the granite can hide his bones
Until the rushing waters
Break down the mountain stones.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 30th. - September 3rd 1982.
May 15th. 2008.
------------------------------------------------
2.
The Nightmare of an Ancient Woodlander.
I used to love my work deep in the forest,
But now I hate it.
Vigilant packs lurking in dark places
Haunt my days.
Red eyed, wolf faced, stealthy hunters
Kill for no reason;
Kill lost strangers who venture in their way.
Kill refugees stranded between bleak borders,
Caught without friends, guards, selfless protectors,
Guides with maps and rudimentary torches,-
The storm ripped trees crashing down around them,
Roots torn out,
Branches shredded like ruptured veins.
I used to love my work deep in the forest,
But now water meadows and lush pastures suit me
Where I can walk at ease among wise children,
Acolytes of the wild Diana:
But no hob goblins,
No mute Adonis chased by savage hounds,
No Oberon intent to steal a child,
Dare cross these hallowed fields.
I can walk at ease along the verdant pathways,
The still lake almost lost beneath the reeds.
I used to love my work deep in the forest,
But now dark forces out of my control
Have smashed my feral heart into a million pieces;
My dearest friends revealed as spiteful racists,
Their gentle hands compacted into fists.
It now appears I am the hated changeling,
An outsider fit for the firing squad,
Or prison camps built by a modern Theseus.
And because my long time lover is a Gypsy,
A girl with freedom etched deep in her soul,
A votaress of the wild Titania,
They harass us with curses, with two edged axes,
To drive us both from out the woodland green.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 28th. - 29th. - April 16th. 2016.
Reimagined May 10th. - 11th. - 12th. - 13th. - 16th. 2016.
Note to this poem.
The sources for this poem include two plays by Shakespeare, The Midsummer Night`s Dream and The Two Noble Kinsmen, the refugee crises in Europe and the rise in the activities of neo Nazis. The folk tales collected by the Brothers Grimm have also been an influence, especially those stories connected to the vast German forests. I once heard a radio talk in which it was suggested that Hitler and his cohorts were the darkest nightmares forged in the deep forests made actual, brought to visceral life, and it is true that the top echelons of the Nazi Party seemed to be occupied by creatures of myth rather than normal people. Other sources to this poem include the various influences that refugees have had on my family. My ex wife`s paternal grandparents fled the programs and the revolution that erupted in the Russian Empire during 1905, while my Greek Orthodox aunt had to leave Petrograd in 1918 because she had married an English diplomat, and the British government had sided with the Whites and not the Bolsheviks. Thirty two years later her brother died in Stalin`s Gulag. But the principle sources for this poem were the anti refugee diatribes that started to pollute the pages of facebook in late 2015 and early 2016, and the racist treatment that has been meted out to my fiance from time to time simply because her mother was born a Roma Gypsy.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 12th. - 13th. 2016.
Friday, 6 May 2016
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.
Monday, 2 May 2016
(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.
----------------------------------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------------------
3.
April Snow.
April Snow
A veil covering a young brides face
To hide her tears.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 4th. 2016
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.
----------------------------------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------------------
3.
April Snow.
April Snow
A veil covering a young brides face
To hide her tears.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 4th. 2016
Friday, 29 April 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.
------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------
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.
Wednesday, 27 April 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.
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