Lonesome in November. (Revised).

 Lock down has made me aware of local things.

The migration of birds above my garden.

Urban foxes scavenging for scraps.

Every flower in my garden becomes a friend,

A short lived friend perhaps, but one to photograph

                                                       and cherish.

These flowers must take the place of distant folk

Locked down in other parts of this grim country,

Unable to make a break, take the wheel and travel,

Unable to ride the bus or express train.

And I have not met my love, or other members of

                                                         my family

Since early March, and now the leaves are down,

The birds have flown, hitch hiking thermals to Africa,

                                   their freedom exemplary.

At night I live in dreams and hug the autumn air,

Missing smiles and kisses, a heart beating close to

                                                                  mine.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 17th. 2020.

Poem number Four in my November 2020 sequence.

 

The Beauty of November Rain. (Completed)

I am glad rain is falling this November lunchtime.

This is the time of year for the beauty of rain

To become apparent, soaking the fallen leaves -

Melding reds and golds into dun coloured mush -

Transforming the mush into clods of black earth.

I wheel the emptied bin from off the pavement -

Last night it was filled with rose cuttings, with 

                                                                  moss,

With various weeds - all taken to make good compost

For other gardeners to use. - I check the back yard gate -

My next door neighbour has left it swinging open, so I 

                                                                                 tie it

Shut with the cord that does for a bolt.- Late autumn - 

My life snuggles down into a sleepless hibernation. This

                                              is the right time for reading,

For reconnecting with friends by video link, by email or

                                                       the landline telephone.

Meanwhile, from the porch, I watch cold steady rain

                                     soften the dry clay soil for Spring.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 14th. - 16th. - 17th. - 20th. - 26th. 2020.

Completed January 30th. 2021.

Poem Ten in my sequence of fourteen line poems about November 2020 in my local neighbourhood. This poem is the last in the sequence.

Simple Gifts.

Twilight lasts an hour in mid November,

Too dark to read - too light to use a lamp -

The windows burnished bronze turning gold.

School kids love this time of year - it seems,

Kicking up clouds of leaves with dancing feet -

Gold dust smeared with mud on rubber boots.

Not many people are wearing masks today.

We are all so happy we want to show our faces

To smiling strangers - to neighbours we rarely

                                                               talk to -

The weather so mild we do not need our coats.

Perhaps it is the soft breeze - perhaps the vote

                                      in distant Philadelphia

That has filled this London street with happy faces -

Or perhaps it simply is the pastel twilight

Revealing the secret beauty of a place I thought

                                                                I knew.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 10th. 2020.

This is the third in a group of fourteen line poems about my responses to November 2020 in my local area.

Sounds of Summer.

Sounds of summer on the radio.

A lark ascends on violin wings

Above imagined tree tops,

The wind - a hum of violas.

Summer is a long time gone now,

The red leaves fallen to heaps of damp fire

Left smouldering on street corners.

Dogs sniff the wind blown debris - then move on.

I try to remember the faces of long gone friends.

The smoke from dying embers is clearer to me now

Than eyes once full of passion,

Smiles innocent and new.

One day in the park, however, retains true clarity -

Anne chatting and laughing - a lark almost out of view.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 8th. 2020.

Poem Two in sequence.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Listening to You Read. (Newly Completed poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Listening to You Read. (Newly Completed poem).:                Listening to You Read (In Memoriam Anne Sexton and John Lennon). Listening to you read I become American, A citizen of ...

A Passing Moment in November.

The sound of distant traffic - muffled by houses.

Two people walking in the street - masked -

                                    distanced by silence.

A single wren chirping in a wet - bare tree.

I stand in the open doorway - barefoot - watching

                                        the world pass by.

This spring I let the weeds grow high in my

                                                front garden -

I let them grow for the arachnids - the bees - the

                                    occasional butterfly.

People passing to and fro thought I had got old

                                              and negligent -

They threw their rubbish over my garden wall.

The weeds shrink back to earth as winter nears.

My neighbours will soon think my garden tidy.

I stand in the doorway - wondering what to do next.

This cold November I am learning how to be lonely.

I retire to the kitchen to light a stick of incense.

The fragrant smoke reminds me of long lost friends.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 5th. 2020.

 Poem One in sequence.

Our Apple Tree has been Replaced by Concrete.. (Renewal NW2).

They are building tower blocks

where we used to plant

vegetables for the family table.

Dragonflies vacate the tiny stream.

I have in mind to learn the Frisian language.

Family roots dig deeper than we realise,

they tap into the source of hidden memory

beneath the skin of who we think we are.

Concrete tower blocks, caves in space

where modern Hunter - Gatherers hunker down

after forays into asphalt jungles,

are merely metaphors for transience.

The bones of villages, of towns and cities,

rot beneath green fields in many places.

Farmers gathering rice - wheat - or barley,

chat in dialects of ancient lineage.

I have in mind to learn the Frisian language,

to staunch the wound between my past - my present. -

Today I watch developers trash the marshes

where we grew our spuds - our beans - our roses.

When a child I was not taught the names of flowers,

I told myself the dragonflies are birds.

If I can learn the words my forbears spoke

I may then touch the truth of who I am.

Our apple tree has been replaced by concrete.

Dragonflies vacate the tiny stream.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

18th. - 27th. - 28th. October 2020.