A Fairytale. (Revised).

Crossing the steel bridge to the market
An ordinary girl, yet full of poems
Red in tooth and claw:

Unruly babies, not yet nurtured,
Already spitting fire, like dragons
Deep in her world, her womb,
The echoing shadows,
The darkness where, in the beginning
All of life is formed, articulated
In secret, all the lanterns out;

Here dwarfish gods
Make sacred swords
And birds speak plain to purblind heroes,
The seas are born, the Kraken roars,
The mountains fall apart.

Crossing the steel bridge to the market
An ordinary girl, her hair in ribbons,
Sings out raw poems to the crowds;
                                                                                    (The girl sings).
Come and buy                                                                          
Come and buy
You lost and lonely
Come and buy.

But no one would give her a well thumbed penny.
No one would give her a candid glance.                               
                                                                                   (The crowd reacts).
                                   
                        Her accent aint local. American? Perhaps she`s Polish?
                        An asylum seeker? A benefits cheat? - NAH,
                        Someone who slipped under the wire? More like.
                        Bet she`s a Gypsy. - A religious freak.
                        How dare she squawk those hard luck stories.
                        How dare she beg our hard earned pay.
                       Come away children! Move! Come on! Out of her way!

But all the children of Camden Town
Danced around her hand in hand,
Sharing their sweets with her and laughing,
Scorning their parents acrid anger.
And when she raised her old tin whistle
They heard a music no adult could hear,
The notes so high pitched they could have been silent,
The notes so sweet the Angels grew jealous.
And when she said it was time to come home
They danced with her over the bridge.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 21st. - 22nd. 2017.
November 14th. - 15th. 2017.
December 4th. 2017.

My Housemate.

I am not alone
I am not lonely
There is a single spider
Living on my window
A quiet Buddha
Watching the world go by

Most other folk
Would swipe him with a duster
Would squash him flat
I cannot do that
I love his stillness
He is quite safe here

Perhaps if I could learn to live like him
All that I need would drop into my lap


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 14th. 2017.

Icelandic Music.

Painting ice with music
So like walking head down into the wind
But surfing it also.

Thus it was when riding white angel horses
Lost in each others arms all through the night
The white wings beating above us.

Thus it was when we kissed in the shimmering dark
The stars ice splinters adrift on windows
Small flecks of light.

We slept that year in the chill of your cabin
The leafless trees whispered outside
Love poems bereft of words.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 9th. - 10th. 2017.

Written whilst listening to Bjork on the radio. 

Standing Aside.

Girl, hair kept long,
Flowing like a river
Over the landscape of her body
Down to her narrow ankles,
Her sturdy dancer`s feet.

Eyes, equatorial blue with longing,
Peering sadly at the grey shore
Of our northern island.
Eyes, sad oceans, deep with thwarted love.

Tonight I watch her sleeping on the sofa.
I promised her to keep watch until morning.
Perhaps she dreams that ship she often talks of,
Sailing inland seas and winding rivers
To a dark, uncharted land of broken vows,
Far darker than this loneliness that taunts me.

She has been quite distant to me since she moved in,
Arriving with her back pack and her kitten,
A frightened huddle of fur wrapped in a towel.
We have both lived lives chained to aspirations
That have dragged us far out of our comfort zones.
We thought that love is easy. It is not.

I tip toed across the room and touched her shoulder.
She protested, then curled tightly in a ball.
I had forgotten that sleep is a private space,
A Safe House with locks on every door.

Sleeping apart is not how we had planned it,
But there is a sort of fear that mimics shyness
And keeps even soul mates at arms length:
Those whom we long to love we dare not touch.

Girl, hair kept long,
Flowing like a river
Over the landscape of her body
Down to her narrow ankles,
Her sturdy dancer`s feet.

Perhaps one day we can live much simpler lives.
Quietly observing the world. Minding our own business.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 29th. 2016.
October 11th. - November 8th. 2017. 

This poem has been developed from an earlier work that never fully hung together. This new poem says what I was trying to express in the previous version. 

Sword. (Revised).

I raise your Samurai sword.
Unlikely as it seems, I admire the feel of it,
The heft of it,
Weight subtly balanced to your strength,
The dance of intuition
So dominant in your mind.

Only you can master it,
Float it on the air,
Float it like a whisper,
A wordless, wistful sigh.
It is not tarnished with deceit.
It seems a force of nature.

I love the fierceness of it,
The elegance of cold steel
That can slice an infants hair,
Cut a man in two.
The balance is almost perfect,
Allied to your steadfastness,

Just like our bitter sweet love.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 3rd. - 4th. 2017.

(1) Thinking of You. (2) Crows.

                  1.

     Thinking of You.   


Thinking of you.
So sorry.
Just cannot sleep.

Thinking of you
Restless.
Dead leaf. Red bird.

Thinking of you
Sleep walking
Still cannot find you.

Thinking of you.
Heart aching.
Bleak wind. Wet summer.

Thinking of you
By the lake side
Not knowing why.

Thinking of you
Restless.
So sorry.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 29th. - 30th. 2017.
--------------------------------------

                   2

               Crows.


I listen to the cawing of the crows.
The calendar contracts,
The leaves are falling,
November is tomorrow.

I listen to the cawing of the crows.
Time to dim the lights,
Park the car,
Lock all the doors;
At this time of the year I run on empty.

I listen to the cawing of the crows.
They cling like rags
To leafless branches,
Seeing further than I see;
Sounding warnings.

I listen to the cawing of the crows.
My world shrinks to one room.
I close the window.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 31st. - November 3rd. 2017.

Three Meditations.

                     (1)

      Crossing the Stream.


An old man on a broken Bridge.
At dusk he crosses the swollen stream
With long        slow         strides.


                      *

                     (2)

          Chinese Ceramics.


This is where I can meditate,
A room stacked with
Plates, bowls and cups,
Simply decorated,
Reflecting the light.

I sit by myself,
Perfectly happy
Arranging invisible flowers.


                     *

                    (3)

        My Wilderness.


I have allowed a patch of garden to grow wild.
It is now more beautiful than when I mowed it,
Every plant has found its proper place.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 24th. - 27th. 2017.