War Zone. (New Version).

The river of love bore you
laughing
to an early death.

May Lazarus lift you up
out of the fire of unknowing
into the morning light.

Your bones knit back together;
the new made flesh a hospice
for the soul we thought was lost.

But your poor wounded skull is howling,
your hat of soiled bandages
trailing deep in mud.

The face of the girl you deserted
reflected in the blankness
of your grey, unseeing eyes,

and the bullet hole deep in your temple
drilled like a cave in the hillside
where the newly dead are buried.-



Imitating birds, plumed with white feathers,
children gather up the scattered bandages
to make a bridal gown.

A gown for the holy image,
the bride without a future
in the sanctuary named for you.

But you are no longer there,
you went back to the Somme and your comrades,
far from the girl who cried.

And when for a second time
you were dragged from the burning trenches
to rest in the arms of Lazarus,
she had returned to breath on your bones
to give you back your life.

But you were now too lost to believe her,
too lost to be saved by her love.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. - 31st. 2014. - July 20th. - August 15th. - 25th. 2016.

(1) Bird. (2) Swan Song.

            1.

         Bird.


Running scared
like a small child
or a black swan
with clipped wings
cornered
by the restless crowd
in the concrete cavern
water dappled.

The crowd murmured
as they watched the water
shimmer and sparkle
beneath the cold eye
of a single light
high up in the steel grey
concave ceiling.

They were shocked
into stillness
by your sudden dash
from one dark corner
into another
head down
shielded from glances,
you floundered like Icarus
in a snow storm of feathers.

I apologise
for invading your sanctuary
as one of the crowd
this Sunday evening,
but it seems that our paths
must now and then cross,
our interests similar,
our tastes much the same;
and I must admit
that the power of your presence
remains uniquely compelling;

and that quick glance you gave me
as you ran swiftly by
from darkness to darkness,
head tilted down
like a swan landing,
seemed to hint at the ghost
of a greeting.-

But that girl at the door
in the flimsy white Ball Gown,
is that your twin sister?
And why is she weeping?
Hands clamped over her eyes
to shut in her sorrow?
Perhaps even you
cannot give me an answer.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 25th. - 26th. - August 5th. - 10th. - 19th. 2016.
--------------------------------------------------------

                     2.

             Swan Song.


There is only one swan on my lake
Sometimes white
Sometimes black
Depending on my mood
Or the weather


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 10th. 2016.

Southwark Cathedral Compline, June 26th. 2016.

The organist played the Ode to Joy
as the priest raised the sacred bread
to the delicate chiming of bells
and the awed silence of the congregation
praying for hope in the bleak twilight
of another dishonourable bitter day
devoid of love, self sacrifice, the simple
                                                  kindness
of trust that unites neighbour to next door
                                                neighbour
whether they be local born or hale from
                                            foreign climes.
Even the members of this congregation
seem lost in their private worlds of prayer
not linked to adoration of the Eucharist
but to some other, secret, fraught unhallowed
                                                          pain
of sacrifice and grief, of human separation,
the breaking of too many loving hearts.
No one has looked their neighbour in the
                                                            eye
since that turbulent rain soaked hate fuelled
                                                  Thursday
when bitter xenophobia fouled the byways
of colour blind, dear multi cultured England
where once we walked at ease and spoke a
                                                         plethora
of diverse, unusual dialects and languages
and dared to love our neighbour as ourselves.
Now I also am a lost, lonely outsider, bereft of
                                             name or country,
of hearth, of culture, a tangible identity
that I can shout out loud and call my own.
I no longer like this tawdry little island, it is too
                                                small and dark,
too full of hate and self infatuation;
and I pray "Thank You Christ for my Gypsy Lover",
she is so fierce, so honest, so despised by my former
                                           friend, that racist voter
who screams mad threats down my telephone
because I wear a badge brilliant with golden stars
and once dreamt that the whole world is my home.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 26th. - August 1st. - 4th. - 5th. 2016.

Sabatha of the Twenty Eight Stars.

Lifting the veil that only I can lift
I meet your eyes, blue and piercing,
seeing me as I truly am.

Debussy on the radio
reminds me that your home in France
may soon become a distant dream,

and my beloved view of the Seine
an umbered text book photograph
pressed between two dusty covers.

Everything we both hold dear
taken from us for no reason
except we speak a foreign tongue,

our faces    pale    as a Yorkshire rose,
our talk discrete    between ourselves.

And religion also plays a part,
you wear a veil, I wear a cross,
two symbols that are mocked and hated.

But hope burns deeper than despair,
Because hope is a child of love,
Not of deceit and phoney war.

So when I dreamt of you last night,
your sad face lifted up to mine,
I knew that we are safe and well

and strongly bound together.
Love cannot be destroyed by loss,
or faith by separation.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 29th. 2016. - September 5th. 2016.
April 20th. 2020

The Free Wheeling Poetry of God. (New)

Jesus is a poet,
Rumi is a poet,
Perhaps God is a poet,
Perhaps?
             

                Well,
never mind the answer to this question,
that is
           if a true answer can possibly exist;-
Butterflies are resting on my rose bushes,
and the scent of thyme scintillates the garden
like a memory of times past
when monks brewed remedies for common
                                                         ailments
from their stock of herbs,
and the inquisition searched for dark skinned
                                                            heretics
observing outlawed rituals   behind locked doors.


Perhaps they would have burned me as a witch,
or used hot irons to force me to recant,
or thrown a bomb straight through my bedroom
                                                                window
at sunset as I settled down to pray.
Well,
          never mind,
those times I think are past,
and the night is very sultry,
                             very still,
and the trees outside my house are rocking gently
to the songs of nightingales.


I shall now go pack my pens into their drawer,
then dance an hour or two in my back garden,
under a roseate moon,
a barren goddess reflecting far off light,
(I always believe in magic late at night).-
My dance shall be a poem without words,
a glimpse into a mirror, veiled and dark,
that words can only desecrate with noise.

Yes, perhaps God is a poet after all,
A poet banished from all holy books.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 17th. - 25th. - 26th. - September 3rd. 2016.

This poem is all about the free association of ideas and images, and peering below the surfaces of life to glimpse hints of the truth. Nowadays we are too much enamoured of the surfaces of things and are led badly astray by this infatuation. I strongly believe that God cannot be described in words, however profound and hallowed by long use. This maybe is one of the reasons why atheism can seem to be the easy option to take up when doubt comes calling, as doubt invariably does. God is often only truly experienced outside the covers of books, outside the straight jackets of traditions. I love all holy scriptures, but take them to be guide books, however beautiful. When I walk through bustling streets or in the quiet midnight fields of rural Ireland. A such times I feel so much closer to all that is holy than when I study sentences confined between hard covers.  

(1) Escape from the Willow Garden. (2) Willow Pattern. (3) Clueless.

                 1.

Escape from the Willow Garden.


Do you remember the moment we were transformed into birds
To escape our enemies on the narrow bridge?
It did not hurt us, the sudden growing of wings,
Our fingers narrowing down into sharpened claws,
But I must admit those feathers itched a little,
Especially when we soared close to the sun,
Our Lark voices shrieking panic calls.

But our wings were not made of wax and branches
And did not melt when we rose like jets
High into the stratosphere above the garden
Where our enemies cursed and swore beneath the willows,
Before they packed their hand guns under pillows
Where they kept them in case of gang land brawls.

That night, changed once more back to man and woman,
We slept together under cherry blossom
That fell like snow upon our tired heads,
But for an hour or two after our sneak arrival
We could not regain the powers of human speech
But sat quietly by the moon flecked river
And told fantastic stories with our eyes.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 16th. 2016.
----------------------------------------------------------

                2.

   Willow Pattern.



I am this shadow

You cannot hold me

Only observe the outline


Transformed into birds
We soar high above the arched bridge
Into the white sky
Briefly our song is heard
Among the Weeping Willows

The huntsman skims a stone upon the water
To shatter a fleeting image
But his aim is faulty
We have already flown far and wide
Out of reach

Later in another country
Transformed into our former selves
We sip green tea together
The simplicity of the ceremony
Instills a profound peace


Holding hands in the dark

The certainty of our love feels stronger

Than the rocks that make up the mountains


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
19th. November 2012.
----------------------------------------------------- 

                    3.

              Clueless.
   

Blind to realities
The hunter spins a stone at the images
Reflected on the river,

Meanwhile the birds have flown.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 19th. 2016.

I have loved the Willow Pattern since childhood, but it was only recently that that I learned it is an English design. So here we have it, European style porcelain decorated with an English design made up of Chinese styled images. The various legends of the fleeing lovers transformed into birds were invented even later. At some point I dreamed that the lovers fled to Japan where they lived out their lives in relative safety, hence the cherry blossom mentioned in the first poem. So here we have it, a world famous English design that could not possibly exist without a positive interaction with other cultures. And where do I stand in respect to all this. I was born in England, have a Welsh first name, a surname that can be either English, Irish or Dutch, and I have Azerbaijani, Russian, Scottish, Romani, and possibly French ancestry. I should have had a different surname, but my mother was prevented from marrying her first love, partly for political reasons. I feel very much a citizen of Europe, and my personal culture is a result of countless transactions along the Silk Road over countless centuries. This island is only one part of that story.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.  19th. July 2016.      

(1) Our First Kiss.(Revised). (2) Ornamental Tree.

              1.

    Our First Kiss.


Under the big moon
I laid you down
On the soft cool ground
By the slow cold river,
And out of your mouth
Flew a thousand birds
Singing wild songs
To welcome the Spring.

Under the big moon
When I kissed your eyes
Golden wings
Grew out of our shoulders
To raise us rejoicing
High above clouds
Threatening to shadow
The new day in rain.

Under the big moon
We first became lovers,
The galaxies spinning
Like Sufi dancers
Floating their good souls
On the music of praise.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 13th. - 15th. 2016.
-----------------------------------

              2.

   Ornamental Tree.


Breaking through the grating
The tree, refusing to be tidy,
Refusing to obey the whims of
                                      fashion,
The latest fetish of the gardener:
Has become a focal point for local
                                      children,
A sort of Maypole, a totem, a marker,
An imagined Roman obelisk,
A living image of the resurrection,
A symbolic ornament to skip and
                                dance around
As they run amok through the tidy
                                        square,
Upsetting new arrivals, disoriented
                                       tourists,
Returning holidaymakers
with their luggage stacked on wheels.


Shoots breaking through the grating
This ornamental tree is breaking out
From the tight cocoon of stone the
                       planner sanctioned
To be it`s compact home,
It`s infant cradle and eventual tomb.
A granite cradle polished so it shines
Like black ice on a wintry afternoon,
Or like a crudely manufactured mirror
Reflecting all the rushing to and fro
In front of Kings Cross station.


But this tree is like the children who
                                         adore it,
Or like the person I would wish to be,
A splash of life inside a concrete city
Breaking through the grating and the
                                               walls,
Cracking up the tedious little rules.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 21st. - 22nd. - 23rd. May - July 15th. 2016.

When I heard that a new Open Space had been opened at Kings Cross by the then Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, I decided that I would like to visit this new public facility. The mayor had praised the project to the moon, giving the impression that a new Trafalgar Square had been plonked in front of the austere 19th. century terminus. What I found did not match this fulsome praise, in fact it resembled nothing more than a windswept concrete desert with a tube station taking up one corner. There were however the trees, not planted in the ground, but in long stone containers that looked like coffins for long dead giants. All these trees were severely manicured, no bulging roots, no branches out of place. One tree however was not doing what was expected of it. Stray shoots and bits of root were breaking through the grating on top of the stone cradle, little flourishes of natural life. Instantly I loved that tree, a little bit of bold life in a concrete graveyard.