Thamar.(New Revised Version)

The sound of thunder in the mountains.

Thamar walking in the garden,
A thorn in her heart:
A brother`s knife
Pressed deep into her naked belly
Spilling blood the colour of roses.

Incest was an Imperial custom

Sustained in Egypt - loathed in Judea. 

Amnon lies dead in the valley,
The sister he raped
Is white with ashes;
The baby clinging to her shoulder
Chokes on milk tainted with wood smoke.

Thamar would have married her brother;
Would have smashed the emptied wine glass
Under her heel
As she made her vows.
But Amnon`s love had turned to hatred
Because she offered him forgiveness.

The sound of thunder in the mountains.

The cries of soldiers drunk on murder.
Sabres dipped in Amnon`s blood
Brandished at the waning moon.

Thamar weeps in the sheltered garden;
The baby clinging to her shoulder
Alienates her even from herself.

She has felt the shadow of the wing of madness
Freeze the nape of her neck.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 14th. - 15th. 2017.
September 29th. 2017.

Note. I prefer the spelling Thamar to the more usual Tamar. I was surprised to read that King David would have allowed a brother and sister, (his Children), to marry each other to protect the honour of the wronged woman. The baby only brings desolation.

Trevor J Potter's Art: An Afternoon in January, A Suburban Street Scene. ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: An Afternoon in January, A Suburban Street Scene. ...: That neat old man toddling home, his bags bulging with tins of soup, is closer to eternity than he cares to ponder, his eyes fixed on th...

Trevor J Potter's Art: This Maundy Thursday Night 2017. (Completed Poem)....

Trevor J Potter's Art: This Maundy Thursday Night 2017. (Completed Poem)....: Kneeling in the silent chapel I study the blank walls where my favourite icons should be and sense the infinite shadowing me in a cold ...

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.