Trevor J Potter's Art: A lyrical Poem for Lily. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: A lyrical Poem for Lily. (Revised).: The night is so warm that I almost believe that I am standing on the rocky shore of Lake Como on midsummer`s morning, not strolling thro...

Trevor J Potter's Art: A lyrical Poem for Lily. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: A lyrical Poem for Lily. (Revised).: The night is so warm that I almost believe that I am standing on the rocky shore of Lake Como on midsummer`s morning, not strolling thro...

A lyrical Poem for Lily. (Revised).

The night is so warm that I almost believe
that I am standing on the rocky shore
of Lake Como on midsummer`s morning,
not strolling through London on All Souls Eve.

I am thinking - thinking - thinking of you,
snug as a chrysalis in your bed,
observing star clusters divide the night
between the emptiness and the light.

I walk in a daze through the silent streets,
and remember your voice down the telephone
as we conversed together for the very first time,
the sun rise out shone by the verve of your speech.

And although I have been told that love is purblind
the sound of your voice filled my mind with pictures
of a wild child dancing as she laughed down the phone
in a room I have never seen.

October retreats from dazzle to darkness,
but today we back tracked to the end of the Spring
when the world is ablaze with sudden beginnings
and even old biddies trip fleetly and sing.

And you are as young as this morning is new,
but the world that you love I was not born know.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 29th. - 30th. 2016.
February 21st. 2017.

Autumn Travails. (Revised).

Perhaps we are already in mourning.

The passengers all appear to be wearing black,
summer a diminished memory.

We huddle inside the commuter train,
jostled continuously from side to side
like parcels packed in speeding vans.

As has often been the case in my life
I appear to be the odd man out,
the pesky chap asking awkward questions,
burying the nail deep with one hammer strike.
Today I am dressed in yellow and green.
Black is far too formal for me.

October will begin tomorrow,
the golden month with serrated edges.
A knife in the belly of the gnarled year.
The snarl on the face of the future.
Even now the sun grows mellow, an overripe peach,
soon it will melt into the horizon,
dissolve beneath a bruise of clouds.

I stare sadly out of the window,
the city drenched in sudden rain.
Wild trees lean like dying widows
against decaying wooden fences.

The passengers all appear to be wearing black;
I find it painful to look at them.
I think they must all be undertakers
en route to a colleagues wake.

I touch your photograph in my pocket.
The cold white paper, cold as your kisses
that time you finally said "Goodnight".


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 28th. - 29th. 2013. - June 13th. - 14th. 2014.
July 22nd. 2015. - October 23rd. 2016.- May 9th. 2017.

This poem has evolved out of Autumn Travails / Winter Blues, a sketch of a poem written on a train in 2013. Everyone in the carriage appeared to be wearing black, apart from myself. I felt like a stranger in their midst, a foriegn visitor who was not quite accepted.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Autumnal Mood Poem, Bankside London; Lovers Stroll...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Autumnal Mood Poem, Bankside London; Lovers Stroll...:                        1. November sun A marigold shrouded in white mist Trying desperately to bloom. We walk hand in hand By the bla...

Breaking the Code. (Revised Version).

She sat next to me
like a cat
on a cushion purring,
her shoulder, touching mine,
slightly stooped
as she looked away,
far, far away,
into imagined distance,
the secret utopian hills
of her imagination.

I could not talk to her,
she loved too much the silence,
the silence,
strong and eloquent,
of that true companionship,
that only loyal children
and long term lovers know.
And the scent of her warm breath
filled the narrow bedroom
like the scent of autumn roses.

"I must leave now, it is nearly half past seven.
I will telephone you once I get to France,
I am staying overnight in Central Paris.
Oh, & please do not watch me as I leave the house,
saying goodbye is just a bourgeois convention".

She picked up her suitcase and strode to the door
seeming so confident as she went,
but her face was as pale as frosted glass.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 20th. - 21st. - 23rd. 2016.
December 17th. - 18th. 2016.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Internal Travelogue. (New Ending).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Internal Travelogue. (New Ending).: The planned engineering work on my mouth will enable me to eat grilled cheese sandwiches, and perhaps give me the confidence to kiss y...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Anna.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Anna.: Kreuzburg liebeskind, russet hair (reminiscent of autumn leaves pictured on my calendar, the one purchased in Vermont in 1964). Feet ...

The Play. (New Version).

One moment a Queen,
then a prancing pony.
A vigilant hound
unleashed by a prince
forcing a deer from the bosky wood.
And then Revenge,
trailing Rapine and Murder
on a leash the colour of arterial blood.
Finally Lavinia
hobbling ghost like through the forest
unable to tell her horrible story,
her tongue tied loosely to her hip,
her fingers swivelling around her neck.

The actors in this play have peeled back the skin
that grows like a virus over our eyes
poisoning our views of reality.

The actors in this play have let in the light
with a quick fix dash of sulphuric acid
thrown with precision into our faces.

But when we all bundle into the pub,
stars and audience in one great huddle
fighting our way up to the bar,
the actors in this play seem a tad more ordinary
than the tattooed miss pulling heritage pints,
and the man with the metal guitar.

Perhaps we all need to be strafed by the spotlight,
to shatter the spell that keeps us in order
and hides us from ourselves.

So ring out the bells for the next performance,
these dark age princesses with wolfhounds and gauntlets
are more real than our everyday lives.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
30th. July - 17th. October 2016.
14th. July 2017.

Titus Andronicus at the Rose Playhouse, 2016.

Autumnal Fade.

An early evening in October.
Not hot.                  Not cold.
My body aches for another Spring.


Trees, dappled like dried seaweed,
stretch gnarled branches against the
                                                   sky
to fend off the shades of approaching
                                               winter.


I stand on the platform watching the
                                              crowds
huddled in blacks and greys against
                                             the chill
that they imagine the promise of
                                             showers
will whet the wind on the cutler`s stone.

These crowds, tight lipped as they wait
                                           for trains,
last month were dressed in brighter colours.


And that woman, who is the centre of my life,
her absence cuts deep             as I stand alone,
ticket in hand, watching the signs
of the slow defeat of the life we have known.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 12th. - 14th. - 16th. 2016.         

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Door Stop. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Door Stop. (Revised).: I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon when my name should have been high in lights burning holes in the Broadway sky through...

The Door Stop. (New Version).

I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon
when my name should have been up high in lights
burning holes in the Broadway sky
through which the glitter falls.

I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon,
wallpapering theatres when the crowds don`t come,
an odd job man with a broom in hand
to sweep star dust beneath the door.

I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon,
stretching the carpet for others to walk on
outside the Flick House in the rain.
What I can`t get is some starlet`s gain.

I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon,
But write down this dear punters, write down this,
Being in sight of heaven is a kind of bliss,
and the moon is a spotlight, not a fake balloon.

I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon
quietly observing dreams that are not mine,
the usual predilection of a fan.
One day I might discover who I am.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 12th. - 13th. 2016.
March 5th. 2017.

A Love Not Spoken.

I only hear bad talk about her.
Posters flaking off a billboard
becoming less coherent by the day;
but that is only half the story:



she phones me with her
                         thoughts,
   but never says a word.


Her thoughts echo through
                                      me
although no words are
                               spoken.


Pictures flicker on a screen
like
        distorted film clips.


Her smile in a darkened room
reveals our mutual sadness,


the hopes kept strictly under wraps
because they are too private.


My mind a dazzled retina
on which her thoughts are grafted.


All our mutual dreams and fear
in one        small             glance.



I have only heard bad talk about her,
but only I can read her news.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 11th. - October 8th. - 10th. 2016.
March 6th. 2017.

I was thinking of both telepathy and on line communications when writing this poem.

Black Moon. - Full Moon.

      Black Moon.   (For two voices)


The nights are drawing in.

The heating turned up high in the hallway.
The blinds pulled firmly down.

No people talking outside in the street
until the light returns.
All hint of summer gone.

I feel empty.
A shell without a kernel.
A room without a door.

Tonight a black moon hides among the stars;
a bruise punched deep into the Autumn sky
by some malevolent god.

When I leave the house at eight
I am a stranger among many,
a shadow lost amongst pale shadows
drifting slowly through the town.

I try to talk to no one,
although the streets are crowded.
Every face I see is blank and weary.

The black moon seems to make the sky more dark.
The stars are hollow eyes that do not sleep.
They glint with silent tears.

My lover phoned to say she had miscarried,
the third time in just so many years.

Hope is a child weeping below stairs
unable to reach up to find the light.


                      *

              Full Moon.  (For one voice).


Well yes, she really does exist,
the White Goddess, dressed in vapour trails
that drift like veils across her stony face.
She makes us quarrel,
fight all through the night,
conceive disruptive children full of chatter,
weird ideas that challenge adult thought.
She is divinity gone mad and feral,
fierce as a teenage army on the march,
beating up the town.
And yet she is the true goddess of love,
pouring balm upon our splintered hearts
as we sit alone all night on vacant beds
waiting for a calm voice down the phone.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 3rd. - 4th. 2016.