A Miracle on the Northern Line. (New Version).

The woman with the red hair
Laughing in the tube train,
I do not know her story,
I only know her name.


The walking stick held tightly
By the old man at my shoulder
Burst into May blossom
When her fingers touched it.


The old man, being blind,
Could only smell the perfume,
He could not retrieve the blossom
That faded when he cried.


I tried to save the blossom,
Could only feel the cold air
Sifting gently through my fingers
As I stretched out my hand.


The woman with the red hair?
She sauntered off the tube train
At Bank for Monument Station,
Leaving not a trace behind.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 26th. - 28th. 2016.
July 29th. 2017.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems. (1) Late Night Impressions. New Poem. (...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems. (1) Late Night Impressions. New Poem. (...:                             1.                  Late Night Impressions . Asleep in your wagon Our bodies almost touch But not quite ...

Two Poems. (1) Late Night Impressions. New Poem. (2) Old Faun and Sleeping Nymph.

                            1.
          
      Late Night Impressions.


Asleep in your wagon
Our bodies almost touch
But not quite
Our minds too far apart

Your anger never leaves me
The anger of a loner
Who needs to share her love
To share her life

To wake up every morning
Next to a perfect stranger


The flowers on your windowsill
Are wilting in the moonlight

One tulip fading in a vase

Death made elegant


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 18th. - July 27th. 2017.
Note.  The wagon was a traditional Gypsy Caravan, or Vardo.

                     -------------
                             2,
       
    Old Faun and Sleeping Nymph.


I have never before known such beauty.
The girl asleep in my arms trusts me completely,
And yet I am afraid my seventy years of error
Will project fraught memory upon her guiltless face
To make division where division should not be.
Meantime, I hold her gently in the half light,
Counting the starless hours as they exchange
Oppressive midnight for a misty morning,
When one pert smile is all I shall receive.

Shall I now wake her with a cup of coffee,
Or wait until the street lamps flicker out?
Or shall I snuggle deep into the calmness
Of this unquestioning love, so new to me?
It seems that she has sabotaged my will,
Taking all my strength by simply sleeping
Lodged in my arms, when I did least expect it.

It seems she owns this moment, so I must stay
Lost in her world, until she wakes to change it;
And then I must relearn in one quick minute
Who she is, and who I claim to be.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 23rd. - 24th. 2017.

Promenader. - After the Concert.

You dance down the street
Like a ballerina en pointe,
Head held erect,
Black curls lifted on the buoyant wind
Of this damp mid summer evening.


All the traffic lights in brexit London
Turn red as you dance in the evening rain
With your innocent verve masking a youthful
                                                     candour,
Your secret laughter
As you smile back at me
                            in the crowd behind you,
Lagging further and further behind.


The grinding traffic of stressed out London
Stopped by the glister
Of your instant fame,
The beauty of your oh so innocent
                                  dancing
As you skip between the toe deep puddles,
Shoes worn out by your swift heeled movement.


This is pure love expressed in dancing,
A young girl madly in love with living
Bringing the jaded town to a halt.
Lending the song birds in nearby Hyde Park
A chance to be heard in the sudden stillness
Of a city with all the motors cut out.


& in the midst of all this you are so unaware
That for a minute you challenged the world.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
19th. - 22nd. July 2017.

Miranda.

Love
You do not know how beautiful
                                       you are
Hiding behind your hair
                                 and glasses,
The brim of your hat.
Your slim pale body like a little
                                         house
Lost deep in the shadow of trees
On a magic island,
The blinds drawn down,
The doors closed tight.
Perhaps one day you will surprise me
                                  with a smile
Awakening birdsong,
Melting the icicles
That permanently hang from the walls
                                 of my homestead
Like an iron curtain.
Meantime I watch you picking at ideas
In the books in my library,
Throwing them up into the air like tennis
                                                       balls,
And not watching where they fall.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 13th. 2017.

A Non Creative Walk About. (New Ending)

I took a poem for a walk
Around the houses,
Looking for a place to settle,
To store our goods,
Our clothes and chattels,
To safely call our own.

I took a poem for a walk
Among the tall apartment blocks,
But all I found was sky high gates
Bristling with lights and cameras.

I took a poem for a walk
searching for a maisonette,
Spick and span, cool and comfy,
Safe from louse, from cat and mouse,
From the spy with plasma eyes.
A haven where my verse could grow
Safe and secret, hid from sight
Like an undercover lover;
Spring blossom snug beneath the snow.

I took a poem for a walk, but
There was no place where the poem
Could root and settle,
Branch and bloom.
No lean to filled with constant heat,
No oil lamp burning day and night,
No quiet suburban garden.
And so the poem lifted sticks,
Floated ghostlike on the thermals
High into transparent air,
Waving sadly as it went.

So now there is no poem I can walk.
My notebook, crumpled up but empty,
Sits inside my jacket pocket,
The left hand pocket stuffed with pencils.

So now there is no poem I can walk,
And I am lost, bereft and lonely,
Wandering through an empty land,
A place where verse cannot be spoken.

I took a poem for a walk
Looking for a place to settle,
A place to store our goods and chattels,
To love and call our own.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 30th. - July 8th. 2017.
March 23rd. - 26th. 2018.

Whit Sunday Morning. (New Longer Version).

I left the door open by mistake.
No thieves came,
No trespasser entered,
But the whole house was filled
With an unexpected light,
And birdsong thrilled the air.

I was waiting for the telephone to ring.
Good news spoken down the line
Could not out shine this singular moment,
Could not have similar power.

Words introduce complexities,
Replace a hug with too much banter.
The sunlight dancing down my hall
Out dazzles the tenderest kiss.

But I must think of you, my love,
Unconscious in the hospital.
The oxygen mask clamped over your face.
The sun locked out of sight.

If I could hide ten Nightingales in my coat
I would smuggle them into your curtained ward
Then let them loose to fly above your bed,
Cascading music deep into your night.

If such intensity cannot waken you
I will invite the thieves to wreck our house,
Steal all the silver, burn our precious books,
Bury your letters deeper than plummet sounded.

It seems the dawn, so vibrant this spring morning,
Was banished from your ward by doctors orders,
But then my love, our dreams, so often shared,
Have housed both Ariel and Caliban.

But rest assured, the front door remains open,
Sunlight, the Paraclete made manifest,
Breaks through all locks, fills our house with brightness,
To bid you welcome.

I will drop this poem down upon your pillow.
Perhaps my words will filter through your darkness.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 22nd. - July 3rd. 2017.

This is the completed version of the poem first blogged on May 22nd. this year. I was too upset then to fully complete the poem because of Ivy being in a coma. She still floats in and out of consciousness, but is slowly improving.