Trevor J Potter's Art: London - June 1966.(Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: 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...

Trevor J Potter's Art: London - June 1966.(Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: 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...

Trevor J Potter's Art: London - June 1966.(Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: 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...

Whit Sunday.

I left the door open by mistake.
No thieves came.
No trespasser entered.
But the whole house was filled
With an unexpected light,
And birdsong thrilled the air.

I was waiting for the telephone to ring.
Good news spoken down the line
Could not out shine this singular moment,
Could not have similar power.

Words introduce complexities,
Replace a hug with too much banter.
The sunlight dancing down my hall
Out dazzles the tenderest kiss.

But I must think of you, my love,
Unconscious in the hospital.
The oxygen mask clamped over your face.
The sun locked out of sight.

If I could hold ten Nightingales in my palm
I would bring them to sing at your window.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 22nd. 2017.
See June 12th. 2020, The Open Door.

A Letter to Miranda, Who Wears my Old Coat. (Revised).

We will reinstate the old bed.
The comfort of old things
makes life bearable.
That which is new is always
                              a stranger,
but you.


But you are my brand new friend, my lover,
newly minted;
surpassing the roster of predecessors
as gold out dazzles silver.
An untamed spirit from a distant island.
A bringer of magic and dreams.


So how is it that you are not a stranger?
More near than twin sister
                                  is to twin brother?
Than mother is to child?


Lost in our dream I can find no answer.
The key to the book of Prospero`s magic
is frozen in time;
locked in an era shipwrecked in shadow.


You have said you will come to stay at
                                                        Easter,
and would like the apartment to be just as you
                                                    viewed it
in that snapshot taken by your father
on a one off visit,          a decade ago.


Well worn items have a warmth about them.
The death of your mother made you hoard all her
                                                school books.
I will now arrange the comfort of old things
to put you at ease                    when you call.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 17th.
May 13th. - 14th. - 15th. 2017.
June 5th.  2017.

A poem written for Ivy.

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) A Myth of Love Returning.(New Version). (2) Ec...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) A Myth of Love Returning.(New Version). (2) Ec...:                         1 . A Myth of Love Returning. Last month I watched you walk across the still water In the dark cavern Under ...

Europa.

Europa is escaping me.
Europa is escaping on the back of a bull.
And I have no new friend
to throw my ball to,
no new friend to play hopscotch and footsie
                                                         with,
no new friend of an equal mind.
I am left all alone on the stony beach
with Europa`s towel in my hands.


I skip and cry at the edge of the water,
skip and cry on the lonely shore.
The cruel sea does not reflect my sorrow
like the dark mirrors that are the eyes of
                                                      Europa,
the dark eyes reflecting all things.
The cruel sea is a thunderous grave
across which Europa has tearfully travelled
on the back of the bull that swims like a fish.


And I am cut off forever from her laughter.
Cut off forever from her constant kisses.
The delicate grace of her ensemble dances.
The come hither glitter deep in her eyes.
And I can do nothing now but sit and watch
the evening slowly darken the shore.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
8th. May 2017.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Soul mates. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Soul mates. (Revised).: By the lakes edge the flash of electricity in the air, cracking the night sky apart, breaking my window. Your face, caught in the mirr...

Soul mates. (Revised).

By the lakes edge
the flash of electricity in the air,
cracking the night sky apart,
breaking my window.

Your face, caught in the mirror
just before our first kiss
as we crashed out of our loneliness, landing softly together,
free falling through a hail storm of dazzling reflections
that perhaps, were our previous lives;
the Bodhisattvas that came aeons before
the sceptics we now are.
Your face, caught in the fractured mirror;
pale moon between dark clouds.

For years my nights were troubled by inchoate dreams
of a young woman that I had never met,
or at least I do not think so.
                                        Her perceptions were forensic.
She seemed to know every detail of my life style,
the ins and outs of my daily drudge,
and she spoke to me like a wife with many a bone to pick.
This was long before I bumped into you at the Casareccia,
when I nearly dropped my coffee in your lap.

Pseudo Romantics call this Loving at First Sight,
but I might suggest, second sight would be more appropriate,
a thousand aeons of deep knowledge pre dating the kiss
that smashed to smithereens our preconceptions,
and broke every mirror that reflected former times.

Tonight we curl up close, like children out of the rain,
safe home at last after a lousy journey.
But how long has this journey taken? A thousand aeons?
Two thousand?                      
                      Or just a year or two?
                                                  And what does it matter?
Old theories of life and death do not concern us
                     now that we can spend some time together.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 4th. - 5th. - 7th. 2016. February 26th. - 27th. - May 5th. 2017.

At the Breakfast Table.

For a moment
a lovely pattern
inside my sugar bowl
caught my attention.

And then it had gone,
had shifted.

The dark sugar grains
slid
into something far more
ordinary,
more everyday,
simply utilitarian.

Something to make use of.
To dissolve without thought.

Quietly I sip my coffee
and wonder what strange
rare beauty
died to make this moment.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 1st. 2017.