Tuesday, 19 September 2017

Sunday, 17 September 2017

Three Poems (1) The Bather. (2) Deep Night. (3) September 1st. Sparkling Sunshine.


      The Bather.

Your body, a black wand
Seen against white blossom.
Teak bending in the wind.


      Deep Night.

Sleeping hand at rest in mine;
Powerless, gently turning,
Black leaf on white water.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 19th. 2017. (Poems written as a pair).



September 1st, Sparkling Sunshine.

I open the curtains.
The light rushes in.
The house resounds to the clamour of bells.

Scared by these sounds
The ghosts depart,
Fidget their wings then swoop like doves
Up to the loft             to wait for the night.

This afternoon I shall stroll in the park,
Sit by the fountain,
Drink lemon tea.

As I drink the tea I shall taste the day,
Bitter but sweet,      a hint of Autumn.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 1st. 2017.

Thursday, 14 September 2017

Monday, 11 September 2017

Tabula Rasa. (A Fragment).

Under the watchful gaze of the philosopher,
The weight of his words,
She burnt all my letters,
My ham fisted hieroglyphs of love
On the concrete path
Outside his bedroom window.
She watched them ghosting into the fading light,
A pellucid column of acrid paper smoke
Shifting in the glint of torches,
The shimmer of the August moon.

My words curled up into a dance of ashes
Pirouetting on the fretful wind
Like black leaves floating on the water,
Slow currents sieved through ancient sunken stones.
Water is forgiving, but fire is not,
And soon all my words were drifting upward,
Like prayers whispered to the setting sun.

She could never tell me why she burnt my letters,
Something to do with the shedding of attachment,
Something to do with changing who she was,
Just like a snake sloughing off dead skin,
Shape shifting into a new persona.

She could never tell me why she had to do it,
Something to do with clearing out old debris,
Something to do with dumbing down the past.
And for a while I would not lift the phone
Just in case she learned to speak the truth.

And for a while, night after restless night,
I dreamt the four wan horsemen rode the wind
Above the roofs of London.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 5th. - 7th. - 10th. - 11th. 2017.

Monday, 4 September 2017


So this is where it happened,
In the rooms above this blue plaque,
Behind locked doors
On a freezing winter morning.
Here where the policeman stood,
The pressmen took their photos,
The neighbours talked,
A poet is remembered,
My teacher and my friend.

You are part of who we are now,
Lodged in our DNA,
In books and grubby mortar,
The crowded Underground,
The streets we hustle out of
To get from A to B.
You are part of the air we breathe in,
Just like Keats and Shakespeare,
Milton, Yeats and Shelley,
A sweet American girl
Cut down by raging sorrow,
Your cry not just an echo,
But etched into the marrow,
The solid London clay,
The back bone of our history.

I hear you in these wet streets,
In Regent`s Park, in Chalcot Square,
At noon on Primrose Hill.
Your voice is never silent,
But shivers through the small woods,
The tight North London suburbs,
The scrum at Camden Market,
The heights of Hampstead Heath.
A voice that cuts straight into
The hallowed euphemisms
We construct to section grief.

Today in Fitzroy Road
I stood and stared up at your window,
Just like a shameless tourist,
But with some reason to be there.
I recalled that teenage boy
Sat awkwardly at your table,
Your pen thrust into his right hand,
A thesaurus at his elbow,
But unable to write one word.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 31st. 2017.

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

Monday, 28 August 2017

August Bank Holiday, Bankside. (Revised).

Exposed by the tide
The old quay rots
On the grey beach.

Commerce has moved east from the city,
Colonising the broad wet lands
Once rich with wild life
But denuded of people.
The cold reed beds
And swampy islets
Where the river slowly seeps into the sea.

And now
Where the porpoise once leapt the low wave
Tankers crowd into the bleak Thames estuary
Waiting to be eased into harbour
By the squat tugs
And phone calls in a mix and match of languages.

Today I stroll among the carefree tourists
Who bring their innocent carnivals to Bankside.
They snap blurred selfies where wherries once tied up,
And cranes were lowered to honour Churchill`s passing.
Beneath our feet, two thousand years of history
Underpins the pavement, but slowly crumbles,
Breaks down into slurry,
The liquid silt that shifts beneath the concrete
With the ebb and flow of the river.

"No thing is solid,
No thing is as we see it";
Mutters the ferryman
As the prow cuts into the neap tide,
The weight and tug of the currents
That buckle the placid surface.
"We honour pipe dreams
But truth gets hooked in the undertow".

The clock at St. Pauls
Chimes each passing quarter.
Exposed by the tide
The old quay rots
On the grey beach.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 27th. - 28th. - 30th. - 31st. 2017.