Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) January 31st. (New Version). (2) Harrow Weald...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) January 31st. (New Version). (2) Harrow Weald...:                       1 .                          January 31st. Already it is the last day of the month, the New Year stacked with sc...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Dream poems. (1) Random Thoughts in the Herb G...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Dream poems. (1) Random Thoughts in the Herb G...:                           1 . Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral. I went and dreamed in my memory of the chapel, ...

Two Dream poems. (1) Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral. (2) Rogue Doorbell. (Revised)

                          1.

Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral.


I went and dreamed in my memory of the chapel,
sat and studied the herbs that now grow there
to create a metaphor of the resurrection,
vivid new growth amongst the broken stones.

"My head is like a sieve", the old woman cried;
"pour words into my ears they fall straight off my lips
then evaporate into the empty air".

"But nothing is really lost", I thought as I sat there
amongst the herbs and heaps of broken stones;
"I can see the shape of the chapel outlined in the raw earth
just like the carcase of a stranded ship.

I would like to haul that Drifter out of the sand,
restore the splintered mast, precarious against the sky
but daring me to climb".


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 28th. 2016.
--------------------------------------------------------------
                            2.

               Rogue Doorbell. (Revised)


Ringing, without being touched
by the wind or an outstretched finger,
my doorbell, apparently with a mind
of it`s own, shocks me out of my nap,
my body curled tight in the Windsor chair,
my head pressed down on the table.

Perhaps my dream was a dynamo,
powering thought with invisible muscle
to ring the bell and wake me up
before my neck became permanently cricked,
and my face was rubbed raw on the wood;
or perhaps there had been a minor earthquake

that displaced the delicate plastic buzzer
and shook the hallway with carillons.
I will simply remark, that when I lifted the curtain
there was no one in sight on the moonlit pathway,
the gate remained locked, the way I had left it,
with the latch pressed firmly down.

I settled back in my chair to think things over.
It seems -  when the bell rang -  I had been dreaming of Leila,
a lost companion I have tried to put out of my mind.
I can feel my heart pounding - right now - as I type her name.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 18th. - 19th. - 22nd. - August 29th. 2016. 
June 23rd. 2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems about Time. (1) Butterfly. (2) Through t...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems about Time. (1) Butterfly. (2) Through t...:                            1.                                         Butterfly . Fifty years ago you gave me a butterfly             ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: War Zone. (New Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: War Zone. (New Version).: The river of love bore you laughing to an early death. May Lazarus lift you up out of the fire of unknowing into the morning light. ...

Butterfly.

                           1.
                 
                     Butterfly.


Fifty years ago you gave me a butterfly
                                 newly hatched from the chrysalis
you had stored discretely in an old shoe box
locked away in the cupboard on the third floor landing
out of sight of your father,
a retired army officer who thought that teen aged girls
should not indulge their time in scientific experiments
but should learn to cook and sew.

                                 The butterfly still lives,
a strange fluttering enigma that awakes me late at night
when she takes a break from her hide away
                        close by the iron fireplace in my bedroom,
the same room where we slept together when we got the
                                                                               chance.

I sometimes think this butterfly is just a figment
                                                    of my wild imagination,
my dream afflicted mind,
seventy years and more but still determinedly adolescent
and unable to understand
                that the Past has packed up every bag and gone.

But your gift is still here with me, undeniably alive,
a little out of sorts now, but truer than that savage "goodbye"
                                                                                      letter
your father made you write
            when he found out that we planned to start a family
without a "by your leave",
and that we thought his take on life was very out of date,
                                    and not worthy of real consideration.

from time to time we managed to meet up,
                       from time to time we hogged the telephone,
but years ago I misplaced your address,
                    and I cannot store phone numbers in my head.
Then last night, as I lay awake, I had a most vivid premonition,
that you will soon come brusquely knocking on my door,
                 your face and shoulders tanned from foreign travel,
your coal black hair white as Alpine snow;
     and that you will lift up your butterfly in long and delicate
                                                                                        fingers
to carry her out into my sunlit garden
                     where she can shimmy and glide among the roses
as to the manner born.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 22nd. - 23rd.-25th. 2016.

Silver Sun.

Reflecting off my watch
I took a silver sun
for a walk around my room
until it touched your picture,
and for that precious moment
I remembered you
just the way you were
before seven lonely years
dropped like a velvet curtain
between our separate lives.

But last night I dreamt that you
sat alone by a window
somewhere in New York,
and that the declining August sun
touched the wall above your head
with a brilliant silver halo.

And a warm tear on your cheek
glinted like a pool of glass.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 17th. 2016.

War Zone. (New Version).

The river of love bore you
laughing
to an early death.

May Lazarus lift you up
out of the fire of unknowing
into the morning light.

Your bones knit back together;
the new made flesh a hospice
for the soul we thought was lost.

But your poor wounded skull is howling,
your hat of soiled bandages
trailing deep in mud.

The face of the girl you deserted
reflected in the blankness
of your grey, unseeing eyes,

and the bullet hole deep in your temple
drilled like a cave in the hillside
where the newly dead are buried.-



Imitating birds, plumed with white feathers,
children gather up the scattered bandages
to make a bridal gown.

A gown for the holy image,
the bride without a future
in the sanctuary named for you.

But you are no longer there,
you went back to the Somme and your comrades,
far from the girl who cried.

And when for a second time
you were dragged from the burning trenches
to rest in the arms of Lazarus,
she had returned to breath on your bones
to give you back your life.

But you were now too lost to believe her,
too lost to be saved by her love.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 24th. - 31st. 2014. - July 20th. - August 15th. - 25th. 2016.

(1) Bird. (2) Swan Song.

            1.

         Bird.


Running scared
like a small child
or a black swan
with clipped wings
cornered
by the restless crowd
in the concrete cavern
water dappled.

The crowd murmured
as they watched the water
shimmer and sparkle
beneath the cold eye
of a single light
high up in the steel grey
concave ceiling.

They were shocked
into stillness
by your sudden dash
from one dark corner
into another
head down
shielded from glances,
you floundered like Icarus
in a snow storm of feathers.

I apologise
for invading your sanctuary
as one of the crowd
this Sunday evening,
but it seems that our paths
must now and then cross,
our interests similar,
our tastes much the same;
and I must admit
that the power of your presence
remains uniquely compelling;

and that quick glance you gave me
as you ran swiftly by
from darkness to darkness,
head tilted down
like a swan landing,
seemed to hint at the ghost
of a greeting.-

But that girl at the door
in the flimsy white Ball Gown,
is that your twin sister?
And why is she weeping?
Hands clamped over her eyes
to shut in her sorrow?
Perhaps even you
cannot give me an answer.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 25th. - 26th. - August 5th. - 10th. - 19th. 2016.
--------------------------------------------------------

                     2.

             Swan Song.


There is only one swan on my lake
Sometimes white
Sometimes black
Depending on my mood
Or the weather


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 10th. 2016.

Southwark Cathedral Compline, June 26th. 2016.

The organist played the Ode to Joy
as the priest raised the sacred bread
to the delicate chiming of bells
and the awed silence of the congregation
praying for hope in the bleak twilight
of another dishonourable bitter day
devoid of love, self sacrifice, the simple
                                                  kindness
of trust that unites neighbour to next door
                                                neighbour
whether they be local born or hale from
                                            foreign climes.
Even the members of this congregation
seem lost in their private worlds of prayer
not linked to adoration of the Eucharist
but to some other, secret, fraught unhallowed
                                                          pain
of sacrifice and grief, of human separation,
the breaking of too many loving hearts.
No one has looked their neighbour in the
                                                            eye
since that turbulent rain soaked hate fuelled
                                                  Thursday
when bitter xenophobia fouled the byways
of colour blind, dear multi cultured England
where once we walked at ease and spoke a
                                                         plethora
of diverse, unusual dialects and languages
and dared to love our neighbour as ourselves.
Now I also am a lost, lonely outsider, bereft of
                                             name or country,
of hearth, of culture, a tangible identity
that I can shout out loud and call my own.
I no longer like this tawdry little island, it is too
                                                small and dark,
too full of hate and self infatuation;
and I pray "Thank You Christ for my Gypsy Lover",
she is so fierce, so honest, so despised by my former
                                           friend, that racist voter
who screams mad threats down my telephone
because I wear a badge brilliant with golden stars
and once dreamt that the whole world is my home.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 26th. - August 1st. - 4th. - 5th. 2016.