Winter Dreaming.(Revised).

Listening for the Firebird
on the shortest day of the year,
hoping that summer will come quickly.

This was the first ballet that I danced in,
a small boy holding a sceptre made from balsa;
but now the taste of greasepaint and cold sweat
is a distant memory,
discarded cotton swabs at the back of the tongue.

Fog diminishing the view from my kitchen window.
Fog making the world seem grey and small.
I am sick to death with this tawdry English winter,
so outclassed by the average Russian chill.
No magical creatures to lighten the long dark hours.
No fiery legends. No oriental magic shows.

November was a drizzly pain in the butt.
December days are short, and wrecked by a lack of
                                                                       money,
therefore I am more than pleased to discover your
                                                                good news,
girl with the face and elegance of Karsavina,
girl with hair as red as autumnal leaves.

You tell me your suitcase is packed, your toothbrush
                                                                     selected;
your makeup in place, your hat fixed on with a pin;
I shall endeavour to meet you the moment that you
                                                                have landed,
two tickets for the Colosseum tucked inside my wallet,

                                                   a birdcage in my hand.

Last night I watched a film about the life of Pavlova.
I weep for those times that I was not born to live through.
Times rich in hope, abundant creativity.
Now all I can do is sit and recall the stories my aunt Tamara told me,
and dream of Diaghilev, Nijinski, dear Anna Akhmatova.

Girl with the face and elegance of Karsavina,
you are the solstice gift that I now crave for,
the dart of fire to pierce old Kashchei`s soul.

I check the clock. It is time to go to the airport.
I just hope your flight has not been delayed by the weather.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 19th. - 20th. - 21st. 2016. - December 26th. 2918.

Note. In truth I carried a box on a cushion, not a sceptre.
I see the early 1900`s as a time of hope and creativity. very much the opposite to the narrow minded nationalism and self centredness that has darkened and shrunk the horizons of hope and aspiration in this petty minded era. Open your hearts this Christmas, get rid of all pettiness. Let love reign.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Pas de Deux. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Pas de Deux. (Revised).: Gentle - soft - voice. Swans on the wing under the moon. I put down the receiver, turn off the light, set the alarm for 7am. Waitin...

Pas de Deux. (Revised).

Gentle - soft - voice.

Swans on the wing under the moon.

I put down the receiver,
turn off the light,
set the alarm for 7am.

Waiting for you is like watching the snow
fall - then melt - then fall again;
a curtain of mysteries,
negative dreaming.

I wonder if you are already sleeping
in your Vardo packed with cushions and pillows,
duvet bunched awkwardly over white shoulders,
boots stuffed under the bed.

Echoes of wing beats over the rooftops.

A tear shaped moon caught in skeletal trees.

When I bussed out to the Borough Market this morning,
I didn`t even notice which coat I was wearing.
I was thinking of you,
nothing else seemed to matter.
Thinking of you hunting rabbits for supper.

I closed my eyes to the local street scene.
Mothers outflanked by fractious children,
fathers humping home parcels and pies.
I walked alone through the crowds and the taxis,
a blind man lost in the midst of the party.

"I will be waiting tomorrow - the path by the lake".

I remember your voice on the telephone,
A year ago, in a far milder winter.
Pale honey daylight and no snow falling.

"I will be waiting tomorrow - the spell can be broken".

I turn over in bed, hugging pillows and shadows,
embracing the silence in the depths of the room.
Christmas next week and I am still alone.
No fire in the grate. No logs by the chimney.

Afraid to discard the thin shell of reason
I turn to the wall the sketch of your face,
then try to imagine it has never been there.-
I have already unplugged the bedside receiver,
too many lies are whispered at night.

Buckled like wings weighed down by dying
outside my window the bare branches droop.

Under the spell of the mist veiled moon
the mute swans gather, heads tucked out of sight.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 9th. - 14th. - 17th. 2016.
January 7th. 2017.
February 20th. 2017

Advent.

Early December.
The sun a polished mirror.
The sky pastel blue.

I skid on bone china.

The ice bound streets break hearts,
shins, skulls.
Dogs limp on frozen paws.

All forms of life seem fragile,
rice paper blown upon the wind;
the lace leaves spiral.

I stare into the sun.
I want to buy this moment,
preserve it in my locker;

trap it like a dream
on pre war celluloid.

Today is so unreal,
a store of muted colours,
all objects made to melt.

I stare into the sun.
Shards of frozen glass
pierce my dazzled eyes,

piece my pounding heart
with a dread of dissolution.

Late blooming roses
poised on leafless stems
hint of somewhere different.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. - 6th. - 8th. 2016.

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) The Parting.(Revised) (2).Commonplace Tranqui...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) The Parting.(Revised) (2).Commonplace Tranqui...:                       1 .            The Parting. You departed at lunch time, Hat not at the usual angle, Shoulder bag swinging like ...

The Veteran.

Sombre end of Autumn music
smoking through the misty twilight,
an accompaniment to the falling of the leaves.

I turn off the radio.

The phone rings.
The news is unexpected.
I write the details down upon a pad.

The old man, unconscious in intensive care,
was joking with me, only last weekend
as I sat at ease in his musty kitchen.
He talked about his manic years at war,
straight out of grammar school into the army,
a useful bod because he spoke good French.
He waved his fork about whilst talking Hitler,
sliced cheese stuck to his outstretched thumb.

"Bach at lunchtime? - Or would you rather hear Tchaikovsky?"

"Neither" I said. "I just like to hear you talk".

Now he lies wired up on the metal bed,
His voice a prisoner in his failing body;
his memories trapped inside his restless head
rocking silent on the single pillow.

Music, his quixotic Guardian Angel,
has always kept him sane at times of stress,
especially when shot up at Monte Casino,
but now, as the leaves fall like tarnished wings,
blotching the hospital grounds in reds and yellows,
he listens, listens, deeper than his heart thrums,

listens for an ambivalent call to arms.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 24th. - 25th. - December 4th. 2016.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems. (1) A Miracle on the Northern Line.(New...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems. (1) A Miracle on the Northern Line.(New...: A Miracle on the Northern Line. The woman with the red hair Laughing on the tube train, I do not know her story, I only know her laugh...