(1) The Destruction of a Simple Man. (2) Stages of Cruelty.

                        1.

The Destruction of a Simple Man.


The empty space on the Gallery wall;
A hole in the heart;

A world of tears.

The thief was a pyromaniac;
He danced in fire.
His need to burn the painting
Killed the artist
With the strike of a single match.

The kidnapped painting,
Cut out, transported,
Pressed flat inside a suitcase
Half a year,
Suddenly revealed to the midday sun
A new darkness, a pile of ash;
A lost child;
A question mark
Scratched on the wall of time.

(The suitcase was preserved,
                     even cherished,
For the thief it had some purpose,
                     some meaning;
It could be used until worn out
Like a raincoat, a pair of sturdy Brogues). 

It should be noted
The thief was a practical man,
His priorities simple;
Not to be caught in the act;
Not to face The Beak;
Not to go down for decades.
Self preservation his only mantra,
His hour had not yet come.

He could not sell the painting
But he had to save his skin,
Preserve his aching joints.

Even Hitler knew much better:
He razed the Cathedral at Coventry
To clarify one or two points;

The eradication of rock hard history;
The nihilism of naked power.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 30th. - 31st. - June 1st. - July 16th. - September 3rd. 2013. 

-------------------------------------------------------------

                       2.

Stages of Cruelty.


Under the cats paw
The grey mouse shrieks

Under the Vets needle
Moggy falls asleep


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 2nd. 2013.

(1).Pastoral. (2). The Kill.

              1.

        Pastoral.

The rabbit listens, and
Hearing no sharp sounds,
No thrashings in air,
Moves deftly, swiftly
With no trick, no fear,
Into the wind flecked lace
Of the meadow;



He savours the cold spring morning;

The sobs of the streams are music to his ears;

His leaps and runs barely shake the grasses.



Suddenly he stops, half startled,
Alert, but not yet afraid.
He sits stock still, a grey stone;
His heart now fiercely racing,
His dark eyes fixed, intent.



The distant farmhouse seems to be asleep.

The distant lane dips empty between trees.

The distant sheep bunch silent in their field.



Poised in the mouth of the wind
On wings as still as ice
The fierce hawk hangs.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 7th. 1967. - January 13th. 1972. - July 8th. 2013.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

               2. 

          The Kill.

Deep in the moonlit valley
All life is hushed;
Nothing stirs, nothing wakens,
Only the quiet breathing
Of the wind.

Like a scalpel a rodent`s cry
Rips open the womb of night.-
Wing beats thrusting upward
Crush the wild sound.

Scratched on air a living shadow
The young hawk soars
Riding the breath of the wind:-
For a moment the wood is alive
With a hundred thousand voices
Shrieking alarm.

A dark shape cuts the pocked face
Of the dumb cold moon
Then drops out of sight........

For a time the danger has passed.

The panic subsides.

Slowly the raw wound closes.


Trevor John karsavin Potter.
June 4th. 1974. - June 27th. - July 8th.  2013.

(1) Girls at a Salford bus Stop.revised version (2) The Eternal Round-a-bout. (3) Love Is Not What We Do.

               1.

Girls at a Salford Bus Stop.(Revised Version).

Where on Earth have they gone to
Those teenagers waiting in line
for the Saturday morning trolley?
Waiting dumb struck, quiet as dead

mice.  There they were, close by the
factory gate,  Sitting in line high up on
the red brick wall  Like a row of broken
bottles,  Waiting for the Artist to sketch

them,  Or a schoolboy to throw a stone.
Where on Earth have they gone to
Now that the painting is done,  Framed
and on public display, as their white knees

were  That long ago Saturday morning
Before the boyfriends came to call
And the infants kicked up a fuss?  Perhaps
they have been put out to grass,  Like so

many of their generation,  Now that their
era has passed.  Or perhaps they have simply de-
camped  To the elegant charms of Southport,
Where they now wait in line for tea.  Or maybe

like the cat eyed Artist,  Who stood with his note -
book and pen,  Observing their every movement,
Have long since chucked out their glad rags
And dropped off their clogs         in the dust.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 30th. - July 1st. - 7th. 2013.
Recalling some quirky paintings by Lowry. 

----------------------------------------

                  2

The Eternal Round-a-bout.


Love drops in like a Sky Diver
First there were no roses
Now there are a million
All things changed in an instant
Just like you and me Babe
First we were
Then we were not
And now here we go again


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
26th. June 2013. 
--------------------------------

              3.

Love Is Not What We Do.


Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
to become what we were
Before what we are
And so go round again,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are.

I should`nt repeat myself
Or I might be packed up on the
shelf                              but
To remind you while I remain,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Now let me explain
Before we melt away
And vanish down the drain,
Love is everything
That we live and do
and is good and true
About me and you,
And so, to go round again,
It is all that we are and do,
Not what we were.

So far                       So good,
                  All this seems true,
but when there is no more love
What can we do?
It will mean goodbye to me
And also goodbye to you;
So let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
And do not come back again
As me and you,
Or indeed as what we were,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are,

So good                    So far

tra la.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
3rd. - 7th. March 2013.

(A) Greek Midsummer Solstice.Revised Version. (B) The Rite of Spring.

                   (A).

Greek Midsummer Solstice. (Revised Version).

             1

After the rain
The earth is black as blood
Drawn from a dead Calf.

The Goddess Aphrodite,
Born of the dank earth
And not from the sea
As the Ancient Greeks
Would have us believe,
Is herself dark as
The Calf`s blood.

We sacrifice our selves
Totally
To her fierce deity
Without a thought,
Without a care.
Our bodies intertwined
Tightly together
In the still house
Like children stung by dreams.
We sleep fitfully
Afeared of the crescent moon
That hangs in the June sky
Like a sickle;

Or a flint knife lifted high 
over a sacred altar.

            2.

The Roman Gods are routed;
Diana turns aside,
Emphatically defeated;
Mars discards his armour,
His sword is pitted with rust.
Aphrodite now assumes
All their ancient powers,
Their sacred arts and symbols.
She sorts them with due ceremony
To neatly pack away
In her Shoulder Bag of tricks.

            3.

The cool rain has returned,
Hiding the sharp faced moon
Behind a curtain of torn silk.
In the dark we become aware
Of the cruel smile of the Goddess,
A smile that she rarely shows
Except when the moon is black.-
We snuggle up tightly together,
Caught in our mutual dependence,
The dark gift of the Goddess.
We snuggle up tightly together
To welcome sleep.

A sleep bereft of dreams.
The quiet sleep of the just.

Outside the tethered calves
Low softly in their pens.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 15th.-19th.-20th.- 21st.  2013.
February 23rd. 2014.
--------------------------------------

                (B)

The Rite of Spring. 


Dance ugly
Give your education the boot
Be yourselves
Spit in the eye of the critics
Don`t give a damn
Dance ugly
And love it
Love it all the way to the archives

 People don`t believe you
When you dance ugly
They think you are lying
Making them look like fools
Gargoyles
They think you cannot dance at all
They think you are just thrashing in air
Meaninglessly
Trashing the heirlooms of reason
Idiotically
Like mythologised Vandals
Goths
When really you are forcing
Deep  Deep  Deep
Right into the heart of all things
The rock drill of intelligence
The diamond edge of truth

What is truth?
Pilate asked that question
But never got the answer,
It was just too easy for him,
Sacrifice was a masculine issue,
Nothing to do with the feminine,
Resurrection was not in his remit.

Dance ugly
Be true to yourselves
Thrust your fierceness into my face
Open up the jungle
The battles of life and death
Reality

Show us what we are


Trevor john Karsavin Potter
May 26th. 2013. 

(1) Recollections of an Old Dancer (Revised).(2).Shadow Play: The Ballerena Replies.

(For Zoe Smith, 1950 - 2011, who never was a dancer,
but, perhaps, should have been).


                   1.

Recollections of an Old Dancer.(Revised Version).


The doctors were wrong.
That old problem has not crippled me.
I could have continued dancing.
But now I can barely think about those times,
The hours in Class;
Those hard won Terpsichorean movements
When we were partners, collaborators,
Before that faulty diagnoses
Fractured our relationship, (forever)?

You were my White Swan,
My Cinderella, my Snow Maiden,
The girl who melted away at the start of summer,
                  Only to return to haunt me
When those sudden winds, announcing the onset
of autumn, Rattled the window panes
And scurried fallen leaves along the pavements.

You remained with me for most of that winter,
A white kitten lodged in our tenement apartment;
The coal fire, that seldom warmed the grate,
Flickering red lights deep down in your eyes;
My enigmatic friend, my Snegurochka,
Pale Cinders with her besom and ancient scuttle;
Fraught scion of Les Saisons Russe,
Pale as ivory, fresh ice on the Neva.

And then you were gone.

The moment that I ceased to dance
You deserted me; waltzing out of the apartment
Into the frosty night, the enveloping shadows;
A filigree figure dissolving,         like the sleet,
That shifted the bolted shutters.
I was devastated, a Pierrot dashed into several
tiny pieces,        My dreams cut dead by reality.
               
So please now tell me, where did you flounce off to?
How did you escape the vigilant paparazzi,
The boys on the five star bikes?

Did you Troika deep into Siberian forests;
Or sail to the edge of Antarctica,
The albatross haunted seas?
Did you circle the face of the moon?
Tip toe on the North Pole of Mars?
You had often promised yourself such trips
In our volatile moments together.

You always hated hotels.
Declined to visit your friends.
You left no letter, no clue to your intentions,
Not even an old publicity shot
Designed to enchant your fans.
No remnant that I could decipher.

But now, in this bleak December,
A decade, or more, after your disaffection,
I am daily pestered by rumours of your returning,
A face, like yours, ghosting the edge of a mirror,
A guarded whisper discerned in a darkened theatre,
A shadow darting silently out of a crowd;
A discarded glove:

A newspaper cutting drifting upon the wind;
Dogs barking in the back yards;
A crystal shoe dropped down an empty stairwell;
Strange noises late at night;       a shimmer of ice.

So now I sit and wait, diligent with expectation,
For the tap of your footsteps crossing the patio,
Your willowy figure,         at ease in the unlit hallway
Poised to confront me                        en pointe.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
December 30th. 2010. - June 14th. 2013.
Revised July 31st. 2013.
-------------------------------------------

                         3

Shadow Play: The Ballerena Replies. 


Hooked to no fixed strata
                   No ticking time
Unchecked I visit various orbits
In one quick conscious day,
Not marching, as you, clockwork towards your moon
But in free space suspended, juggling fates,
Times, perspectives
                   Until clear patterns shape.
As to you, your blindness appals me,
Commuting through flecks of experience
One point in mind,
                   Scared to unmask and review
           The intricate complex of suns.
Yet, though separated by distances, by depths
and shadings immeasurable
Our challenging voices scan
To receive appropriate token;

                   By this we are defined?


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 1965.
Written in The One Tun Goodge Street, when it was at the heart of the London Scene.

(1) Poet in Suburban Extremis. (2) Early Morning Walk.

                   1.

Poet in Suburban Extremis. 


The jagged wound is healed,
The raw skin sealed,
And in a poem
I myself revealed.

There was no poetry in our so called love.
You wanted a house, a car, a radio, a fridge;
Someone to dig the garden, pay the mortgage,
Keep your body clear of that irksome itch
As you lay supine in the bath, pretending to be rich.

But life just aint like that my lie low babe,
When it cometh to terse reality, you never made the grade;
You brandished self respect like a junkie`s razor blade.

love hurts,
We all know this must be true,
But the stark intensity of love
Never cut through to you.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 15th. 2012. - April 3rd. 2013.

-----------------------------------

                      2.

       Early Morning Walk.


This morning I watched the sunrise
A pearl in an indigo sky
A blank of silent water
Denuded of ships

A solitary bird sang in the hedgerow
Pining for a long lost mate
Another lonely traveller

Hands stuffed in woollen gloves
I walked towards the cash point
That emblem of insecurities
More feared than a broken phone

I looked up at the new found pearl
And wondered how soon it would burn
A large hole in my pocket


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
June 4th. 2013.
The pearl often represents purity in medieval poetry. 

See Blog Page for July 3rd. 2015 for rewrite of this poem.

London - June 1966.(Revised).

                    1

      London - June 1966.
      
I broke my promise,
I did not visit you,
I sat all alone in the pub
Nursing my self regard
Like a pampered pop star.
Disturbed by your candid awkwardness
I had become afraid of intimacy.

You waited all day in your room,
Staring out of the window at the passing crowd,
Hoping to spy the visitor who never came.
The day cooled and darkened.
A shower sluiced the road with rivulets of mud.
The weather mirrored your mood.
You closed the window against the driving rain.

Your friends told me that you cried then;
Turned your face to the wall, tore at the curtain.
You had never shown me your tears,
Nor your anger, nor your love,
But your silence was familiar to me.

The next day I arrived on the doorstep,
Dishevelled, unkempt, just like the weather.
You said nothing, your face was a stern mask,
You turned away from my greeting. Frozen out
I snatched some chit-chat with your neighbour,
Snippets of news and some general tittle-tattle.
You were watchful, aloof; but hunched by the fire
Took note of my every word, thinking.

Bare footed , head lowered, eyes half closed,
A scorned Pre-Raphaelite Icon nursing grief;
Gently you brushed my face with your index finger
As you walked slowly, not speaking, to your room.
I stared at the lino, now noting how worn it was,
Spotted by cigarette burns, heel dents, grease stains;
The corners scuffed up and broken.

Your father put down his newspaper and sighed.

The door closed quietly behind you.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 2008 - Revised June 2nd, - 10th. 2013. - May 16th. 2017.
first Version blogged 2nd. August 2012.