1
Her Timed Entrance. A Love Poem.
Quietly through the labyrinth of time
You followed the clues I had scattered;
Your footsteps, although muffled,
Discerned at ten years distance,
Their soft sure tread
Praised from the first.
Your gently whispered words,
A far away enchantment;
Your elfin face, a shadow in my mirror.
And now you have arrived
To the minute,
On the very day expected
At the meeting of two paths.
Give me your hand,
There is no reason to be afraid.
Empathy has long since been our guide;
Give me your hand, your nerve is strong,
My sense of purpose certain;
Let us finish this journey together.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 23rd. 1966. - January 29th. - 31st.- February 1st. 2015.
April 17th. - July 23rd. 2015.
I have reverted to the original last line sketched in 1966.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
2.
The Silence of Nam June Paik.
Broken records
The voice of an era lying smashed
On the floor
Discarded
Now everything that you said to me
Is merely dust for the hoover
Words of false regret
Little broken lies
Poems locked for seven years
Inside a Highgate sepulchre
Little scraps of black
To be dropped into the bin
Broken songs of innocence
Picked over by blunt strangers
The municipal body snatchers
Broken records
Scattered on the floor
Unregarded
Depersonalized
The last of your love letters
Hammered into splinters
Rebuke forgetfulness
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 6th. - 7th. 2014. - January 30th. 2015.
First sketched during a visit to the Tate.
Friday, 30 January 2015
Thursday, 22 January 2015
Oradour sur Glane, The Martyred Town. (Revised Version).
The burnt out buildings and vehicles
Of Oradour sur Glane
Have rotted on the rich green sward
Of Haute - Vienne
Like an unhealed wound
For much of my lifetime.
These piteous relics of a long gone epoch
Are a constant reminder of the horrors of conflict,
More powerful than any thick grained photograph
Placed high on a shelf
By a grieving parent.
Flickering images of starving prisoners
Violently gripping barbed wire fences
As they stare out at freedom
Lose potency as the years pass by,
But these shattered walls and caved in roofs
Are defiantly Now, and forever with us.
Nearly all of the townsfolk were butchered here,
Crammed into barns like pigs for slaughter,
Burnt alive in the ancient church,
Or shot as they tried to evade the squads
Of fanatical Third Reich soldiers.
These stones, these rusting hulks of cars,
These bombed out shells of well loved houses,
Are like scarred megaliths signalling anger
Against an uncomprehending world.
These are the only monuments that make any sense here;
Words are too fragile to describe such crimes,
And photographs are simply a blur of shadows
Dissolving gradually into nothing.
These ruins are raw, jagged and hard,
If we get too close we can tear our skin on them,
Rip our civilized flesh to the bone.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 22nd. 2015.
I was too deeply affected to write about the recent events in Paris, my second city, but when a friend put a picture of the burnt out rusting cars left over from the 1944 massacre at Oradour sur Glane onto Facebook I just had to respond with a poem. I hope it speaks for all victims of atrocities, whoever they are, whatever part of the world they live in.
Of Oradour sur Glane
Have rotted on the rich green sward
Of Haute - Vienne
Like an unhealed wound
For much of my lifetime.
These piteous relics of a long gone epoch
Are a constant reminder of the horrors of conflict,
More powerful than any thick grained photograph
Placed high on a shelf
By a grieving parent.
Flickering images of starving prisoners
Violently gripping barbed wire fences
As they stare out at freedom
Lose potency as the years pass by,
But these shattered walls and caved in roofs
Are defiantly Now, and forever with us.
Nearly all of the townsfolk were butchered here,
Crammed into barns like pigs for slaughter,
Burnt alive in the ancient church,
Or shot as they tried to evade the squads
Of fanatical Third Reich soldiers.
These stones, these rusting hulks of cars,
These bombed out shells of well loved houses,
Are like scarred megaliths signalling anger
Against an uncomprehending world.
These are the only monuments that make any sense here;
Words are too fragile to describe such crimes,
And photographs are simply a blur of shadows
Dissolving gradually into nothing.
These ruins are raw, jagged and hard,
If we get too close we can tear our skin on them,
Rip our civilized flesh to the bone.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 22nd. 2015.
I was too deeply affected to write about the recent events in Paris, my second city, but when a friend put a picture of the burnt out rusting cars left over from the 1944 massacre at Oradour sur Glane onto Facebook I just had to respond with a poem. I hope it speaks for all victims of atrocities, whoever they are, whatever part of the world they live in.
Tuesday, 13 January 2015
A Beach in Donegal, 27th. December 2014.
A washed out
Faded
Frost blue
Clarity of sky
Hurts the eyes
I study
Tall clouds
Sailing
Serenely
Far above scree grey Errigal
Like the fleece white rudderless bucking ships
Of Celtic saints
Returning from America
Other mountains shall burst the soft hulls open
Upon inland peaks
And cornices
To steal their cargoes -
The priceless gifts -
But just as quickly lose them
This coast is usually mild
Unlike green hedged Fermanagh
Soaked in fog and snow -
A distant whisper of breaking waves
Reminds me of my origins
On the western verge of Europe -
Here where every rock and stone is sacred
And sea birds cackle archaic hymns
To strange primeval gods
The wet sand reflects the sailing clouds
In a harsh white natural mirror
Dazzling in the low December sun -
I stand
Half blind
In the midst of this sea edged mirror
Not knowing if I am placed on solid ground
Or somehow locked in stasis
Between the earth and sky
A nostalgia for sacred places pulled me home
Much as the west wind drove the ships of the saints
Travelling east from Greenland -
The holds crammed tight with legends
But I cannot honour the memory of those saints
As I linger here close by the ocean edge
Muttering paternosters
More out of habit than any sense of wonder
The cries of the grey winged birds drown out my every word
Mocking me into silence
Their magic rules the air
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 27th. 2014 - January 13th. - 14th. 2015.
Faded
Frost blue
Clarity of sky
Hurts the eyes
I study
Tall clouds
Sailing
Serenely
Far above scree grey Errigal
Like the fleece white rudderless bucking ships
Of Celtic saints
Returning from America
Other mountains shall burst the soft hulls open
Upon inland peaks
And cornices
To steal their cargoes -
The priceless gifts -
But just as quickly lose them
This coast is usually mild
Unlike green hedged Fermanagh
Soaked in fog and snow -
A distant whisper of breaking waves
Reminds me of my origins
On the western verge of Europe -
Here where every rock and stone is sacred
And sea birds cackle archaic hymns
To strange primeval gods
The wet sand reflects the sailing clouds
In a harsh white natural mirror
Dazzling in the low December sun -
I stand
Half blind
In the midst of this sea edged mirror
Not knowing if I am placed on solid ground
Or somehow locked in stasis
Between the earth and sky
A nostalgia for sacred places pulled me home
Much as the west wind drove the ships of the saints
Travelling east from Greenland -
The holds crammed tight with legends
But I cannot honour the memory of those saints
As I linger here close by the ocean edge
Muttering paternosters
More out of habit than any sense of wonder
The cries of the grey winged birds drown out my every word
Mocking me into silence
Their magic rules the air
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 27th. 2014 - January 13th. - 14th. 2015.
Wednesday, 7 January 2015
Will Shakespeare. (Revised).
Shakespeare, I meet you at nights in the pub,
The brothel, the goal.
You are one of our number,
A rogue and vagabond, a whore monger,
Dirt under your finger nails, spittle in your beard,
Cocking a snoop at the guardians of morality
As you write fierce plays to the thrum of the clock
In a smoke black alehouse.
Rapier sharp with raw sexual fury
Your words daub the tenements with a visceral anger
More relevant than untutored graffiti,
To tell us exactly how the wide world wags.
Thou art the truth speaker without parallel,
No public health warning can devitalize you.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 16th. - 22nd. - 23rd. 2014.
Re - written January 7th. 2015.
The brothel, the goal.
You are one of our number,
A rogue and vagabond, a whore monger,
Dirt under your finger nails, spittle in your beard,
Cocking a snoop at the guardians of morality
As you write fierce plays to the thrum of the clock
In a smoke black alehouse.
Rapier sharp with raw sexual fury
Your words daub the tenements with a visceral anger
More relevant than untutored graffiti,
To tell us exactly how the wide world wags.
Thou art the truth speaker without parallel,
No public health warning can devitalize you.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 16th. - 22nd. - 23rd. 2014.
Re - written January 7th. 2015.
Tuesday, 30 December 2014
(1).Christmas Eve - Fermanagh. First Version. (2). O Zone.
1.
Christmas Eve - Fermanagh. (First Version).
There are no bright colours here -
The sky - pale as a shroud
Wet from weeping -
The sun - a dim white eye
Half closed among vast clouds.
The bone thin winter trees
Reach up like gnarled hands
Pleading -
Old saints at prayer
With few hopes of salvation. -
A blank horizon pressing down
Onto the ancient landscape -
Unremittingly -
Mocks this fragile sadness -
The pale sun fading
As a thin moon rises.
Cruel escarpments -
Mist sodden mountain walls
Melt like unquiet ghosts. -
Christmas Eve - Fermanagh -
The stillness gathers all unto itself
As evening settles. -
Clouds spread wide like canvas sails
That once drove famine ships.
Awaiting their congregations
The grey stone village churches
Stand like border forts -
The symbols of partition. -
The shadows of ancient grief -
Of martyrdoms and oppression -
Deeply stain their walls.
I was not born here -
But I might as well have been. -
I am at home in a frontier landscape
Where nothing is ever certain.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. - 25th. - 30th. - 31st. 2014.
Last four lines, January 2nd. 2015.
Belcoo and Enniskillen. For Eithne.
-------------------------------------------------------
2.
O Zone.
The river of love bore you
Laughing
To an early death
May La tour Eiffel never cease
Weeping
Nor your gold winged Christ hit the ground
Happy New Year
Dear Angel
Guillaume Apollinaire
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. - December 31st. 2014.
Christmas Eve - Fermanagh. (First Version).
There are no bright colours here -
The sky - pale as a shroud
Wet from weeping -
The sun - a dim white eye
Half closed among vast clouds.
The bone thin winter trees
Reach up like gnarled hands
Pleading -
Old saints at prayer
With few hopes of salvation. -
A blank horizon pressing down
Onto the ancient landscape -
Unremittingly -
Mocks this fragile sadness -
The pale sun fading
As a thin moon rises.
Cruel escarpments -
Mist sodden mountain walls
Melt like unquiet ghosts. -
Christmas Eve - Fermanagh -
The stillness gathers all unto itself
As evening settles. -
Clouds spread wide like canvas sails
That once drove famine ships.
Awaiting their congregations
The grey stone village churches
Stand like border forts -
The symbols of partition. -
The shadows of ancient grief -
Of martyrdoms and oppression -
Deeply stain their walls.
I was not born here -
But I might as well have been. -
I am at home in a frontier landscape
Where nothing is ever certain.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. - 25th. - 30th. - 31st. 2014.
Last four lines, January 2nd. 2015.
Belcoo and Enniskillen. For Eithne.
-------------------------------------------------------
2.
O Zone.
The river of love bore you
Laughing
To an early death
May La tour Eiffel never cease
Weeping
Nor your gold winged Christ hit the ground
Happy New Year
Dear Angel
Guillaume Apollinaire
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. - December 31st. 2014.
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
(1) The face of the Virgin. (2) Ghosting. (A Song). (3) A Shared Nightmare.
1.
The face of the Virgin
Your face - pale in the church window -
Pensive among gold angel wings
Spread to shield the derelict stable
From the stiletto thrust of desert winds
Cutting through the cold back streets
Of war stormed Bethlehem.
Your face - neither Arab nor Israeli -
But North Italian - if my guide book is right -
Portrays to perfection the love of Mother Mary
For her boy child - born that violent night -
The shrieks of racists echoing through the city -
The flames of rockets arcing through the sky.
Your face - pale with love that defeats ideology
Shimmering among shadows in a patch of light.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
16th. December 2014.
---------------------------------------------------------
2.
Ghosting. (A Song).
over our footsteps
criss-crossing the snow
your shadow drifting
obliterates mine -
black upon blackness -
we fold over the whiteness
a singular darkness
i loved you once -
but your love was unkind -
and now you have left me
dumb and blind
to wander at nights beside you
your hand on my shoulder
you whispering softly -
I turn to hear you
against the storm -
but your voice cannot magic
a path through the white wind
that shatters all calmness
i loved you once -
but your love was unkind -
and now you have left me
dumb and blind
to wander at nights beside you
over our footprints
criss-crossing the snow
your shadow drifting
with infinite deftness
interacts with mine -
two shadows ghosting
in the raw white wind
i loved you once -
but your love was unkind -
and now you have left me
dumb and blind
to wander at nights beside you
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
First Sketched November 5th. 1978.
Revised November 3rd. 2010 - December 17th. - 18th. 2014.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
3.
A Shared Nightmare.
Through a glass darkly I dream you
Dream hopes I must forsake
Flecked by sombre shadows
The mist dissolves the lake
I fear that we are drowning
and yet we dare not wake
I reach out to find the mirror
To touch but not to take
Your voice cries out forlornly
Cries out across the lake
Our hands meet in the darkness
A cold dawn starts to break
Your fingers melt like icicles
Melt back into the lake
Through a glass darkly I dream you
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 7th. 1980. - March 14th. 2014.
August 2nd. 2014. - December 18th. 2014.
The face of the Virgin
Your face - pale in the church window -
Pensive among gold angel wings
Spread to shield the derelict stable
From the stiletto thrust of desert winds
Cutting through the cold back streets
Of war stormed Bethlehem.
Your face - neither Arab nor Israeli -
But North Italian - if my guide book is right -
Portrays to perfection the love of Mother Mary
For her boy child - born that violent night -
The shrieks of racists echoing through the city -
The flames of rockets arcing through the sky.
Your face - pale with love that defeats ideology
Shimmering among shadows in a patch of light.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
16th. December 2014.
---------------------------------------------------------
2.
Ghosting. (A Song).
over our footsteps
criss-crossing the snow
your shadow drifting
obliterates mine -
black upon blackness -
we fold over the whiteness
a singular darkness
i loved you once -
but your love was unkind -
and now you have left me
dumb and blind
to wander at nights beside you
your hand on my shoulder
you whispering softly -
I turn to hear you
against the storm -
but your voice cannot magic
a path through the white wind
that shatters all calmness
i loved you once -
but your love was unkind -
and now you have left me
dumb and blind
to wander at nights beside you
over our footprints
criss-crossing the snow
your shadow drifting
with infinite deftness
interacts with mine -
two shadows ghosting
in the raw white wind
i loved you once -
but your love was unkind -
and now you have left me
dumb and blind
to wander at nights beside you
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
First Sketched November 5th. 1978.
Revised November 3rd. 2010 - December 17th. - 18th. 2014.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
3.
A Shared Nightmare.
Through a glass darkly I dream you
Dream hopes I must forsake
Flecked by sombre shadows
The mist dissolves the lake
I fear that we are drowning
and yet we dare not wake
I reach out to find the mirror
To touch but not to take
Your voice cries out forlornly
Cries out across the lake
Our hands meet in the darkness
A cold dawn starts to break
Your fingers melt like icicles
Melt back into the lake
Through a glass darkly I dream you
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 7th. 1980. - March 14th. 2014.
August 2nd. 2014. - December 18th. 2014.
Monday, 8 December 2014
(1) December 6th. (2) Pavane. (3) The Shortest Day.
1.
December 6th.
Winter comes in without warning.
Children larking on new ice.
The sun laughing between cold clouds.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 8th. 2014.
-----------------------------------------------
2.
Pavane
Dancing a stately pavane
We rarely touch,
But the heat of your nearby body
Warns me
That civilisation is only skin deep,
Much like that twisted scratch of a smile
That sometimes marks your face
For a moment or two,
Giving hope to the stranger
But frightening away the wary.
Your uncle was very certain that you loved me,
But I am not so sure,
Preferring to keep at a safe distance
As we parade down the centre of the hall
To the strict tempo
Of the courtly music.
Dancing a stately pavane
We rarely touch,
But the paradoxical shifts in your persona
Remain on view
Despite the orderly progress of the music
And the whiteness of the masks.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 8th. 2014.
-----------------------------------------------------
3.
The Shortest Day.
Winter -
The stone I toss into the pond
Creates no ripples
Even time is frozen
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 11th. 2014.
December 6th.
Winter comes in without warning.
Children larking on new ice.
The sun laughing between cold clouds.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 8th. 2014.
-----------------------------------------------
2.
Pavane
Dancing a stately pavane
We rarely touch,
But the heat of your nearby body
Warns me
That civilisation is only skin deep,
Much like that twisted scratch of a smile
That sometimes marks your face
For a moment or two,
Giving hope to the stranger
But frightening away the wary.
Your uncle was very certain that you loved me,
But I am not so sure,
Preferring to keep at a safe distance
As we parade down the centre of the hall
To the strict tempo
Of the courtly music.
Dancing a stately pavane
We rarely touch,
But the paradoxical shifts in your persona
Remain on view
Despite the orderly progress of the music
And the whiteness of the masks.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 8th. 2014.
-----------------------------------------------------
3.
The Shortest Day.
Winter -
The stone I toss into the pond
Creates no ripples
Even time is frozen
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 11th. 2014.
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