Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) A Dream of Deep Midwinter. (Revised) (2) Note...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) A Dream of Deep Midwinter. (Revised) (2) Note...: Butter coloured moon, Midnight December, A single light in the coldest of skies Shining above the Christmas rooftops, The bare boned tr...

(1) A Dream of Deep Midwinter. (Revised) (2) Note to Poem.

Butter coloured moon,
Midnight December,
A single light in the coldest of skies
Shining above the Christmas rooftops,
The bare boned trees,
The frosted windscreens,
The silent houses.


Children sleeping on pins and needles,
Bedazzled by Santa,
The thrill of his secrets,
The glint of his spells.
The houses snuggled deep into shadow,
Festive lights behind closed windows
Blinking through the smoke of dreams.


Flimsy curtains of broken promises
Keep at bay the frozen night time,
The implacable solitudes of infinite spaces,
The invisible stars.
We hang up stockings and bolt the doors
This dark and haunted Christmas Eve,
Fearing what we cannot imagine,
Loving what we make believe.


My window ajar, I study the heavens,
Butter yellow moon in a cloudless sky.
A fox slinks by, urbane and crafty,
Avoiding street lamps, moving fast.
Two cats, on guard upon a wall
Scratch the air as he passes;
While in the houses, fast asleep,
Children dream of knights and castles.


I quietly latch the bedroom window,
Then draw the curtains tight.


Trevor John. Karsavin Potter.
December 28th. - 29th. - 30th. December 2017.

Note to Poem.

Our streets and houses are dreams we have created to shut out the real world, the impersonal bleakness of the Universe. We have blotted out the night sky with bright urban lights, only the moon now clearly visible, and our houses have become extensions of our composite personalities, dream worlds purchased with hard cash. When we mourn, the whole house mourns with us. At Christmas time, the house becomes the Spirit of Christmas, or Santa Claus if you so wish. The festivities last until at least Twelfth Night, when we ask the Magi to bless our homes. In truth, Christmas is not finally over until Candlemas. A Happy Fifth Day of Christmas and a Good New Year to everyone.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 29th. 2017.

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1)The Still Hours. (Revised). (2) Today is the S...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1)The Still Hours. (Revised). (2) Today is the S...:               The Still Hours. Two Chinese girls studying porcelain, Their fingers dance with delicate precision. Fragile sprigs of Win...

(1)The Still Hours. (Revised). (2) Today is the Shortest Day.

              The Still Hours.


Two Chinese girls studying porcelain,
Their fingers dance with delicate precision.
Fragile sprigs of Winter Jasmine
Troubled by December wind.

Monochrome porcelain does not change
While century folds deep into century.
Slow wave folding into wave
Then breaking on the shore.

These girls seem wiser than their years,
They almost fear to lift the bowls,
Simplicity loaned to their safe keeping.

Jasmine fades in April sunlight,
Windblown blossom on wet snow
Unnoticed falls.

The porcelain bowl I dropped at school
Chimed like a bell, but did not break.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 19th. - 26th. 2017. 

                    *

 Today is the Shortest Day.


Today is the shortest day;
An ink stain on pristine paper
No razor can erase.

I snuggle tight into my dream
Waiting for a hint of light
To glow between the curtains.

Ice shimmering on a distant lake,
A single streak of winter dawn
Glinting low on the horizon.

A ripe bruising of dark cloud
Dissipates from off the surface
Of a sky chill with silence,
The flocks have long since arrowed south.

Today is the shortest day,
A comma on an empty page,
The story not yet written.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 21st. 2017.

Advent Eve.

Remembered fears become real once more.
Bare trees stoop,
Bleached skeletons flayed by Arctic wind,
Starving paupers hunched in snow,
Spittle frozen to their beards,
Ice on cracked faces,
Cracked cadaver lips.
Spiders trapped in frosted amber
Crucified on fractured webbs.


Spiders webs on frosted glass,
Thin grey hair
Of homeless women,
Crossing roads they walk to nowhere,
Every door is locked against them,
Threadbare coats flayed into tatters,
Voices cracked
Each word a prayer.


November dying in the embers
Of bonfires built to burn dead leaves,
Torn up roots
And hacksawed branches,
Masked effigies of Fawkes and priests.
Remembered fears are real once more.
Homeless children crowd around me
Begging money,
Begging bread.
I have leased my life to empty promises,
I have nothing more to give.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 30th. - December 1st. - 2nd. - 12th. 2017.

Midwinter Loneliness.

Ice on my footpath
A mirror to be melted
So that you can return

At night I recall
You snuggled beside me
Warmer than firelight

Your smile when you touched me
Cracked open the dark

I think this crushed snow
Is simply a metaphore
Reflecting our sorrow

I must now spread hot ash
Over the ice
To make the path safe


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 12th. 2017.

Wonderland Love Song.

I am your Cheshire Cat.

You can scroll down quickly
So that I disappear
Right off your screen
If you like,
But my image will remain
Locked in your mind,
Afloat in inner space
Just like the face
Of the magical feline of Wonderland.

I am not a virtual inhabitant
Of your hand held plastic world
So small it can fit
Tight in the pocket watch
Of a frantic off white rabbit.
My claws are real,
Larger than average claws,
And can draw red blood
From the falsest of false hearts.

I am invisible, zapped out
By you,
But just for one moment.
Whichever path you may take,
Left or right or wherever,
You shall find me waiting,
Curled up on the warm hearth
Of any strange house you may enter,
Perfectly at home as always.

So turn off your fake small world,
Unplug your permanent headphones,
Hear my real words
Whispering out of the darkness,
Straight off the yellowing pages
Of the paperback book you once loved.
I am the smile that cannot be faded,
Your first kiss under starlight
When the whole universe seemed to swirl you

In a dance above the clouds.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 8th. - 9th. 2017.

(1) Love Talk? (2) Weeks After the Party. (3) End House.

                   1.

          Love Talk?


Holding hands across the table,
Talk of coats, hats, and shopping.
Eye contact direct, but dazzling.
Just cannot say "I love you".


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. 2017.

                  2.

  Weeks After the Party.


I am still picking remnants of last summer
From off the front room carpet;
Flecks of golden foil
Dropped by laughing children,
All their toys broken.

Meanwhile outside in my urban garden
Tiny dark green shoots
Disturb December leaf mould
Weeks before the solstice:
Easter tidings etched on Advent sorrow.

I drop the flecks of foil into the waste bin
Then stare out of the window.
The fading past and doubtful future seem
Just one quick glance apart.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. 2017.
             
               
                  3.

         End House.


The old lady`s end of terrace
Has been converted into flats.
Gone the chats across the fence.
Gone the Winter Jasmine.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. 2017.

(1) Not Quite a Ghost. (2) Sunday Morning.

                    1.

        Not Quite a Ghost.


And as you walked away from me
I remembered the child that you once were

Four hours gone
Your expensive scent remains
In the textures of the back room
Transforming every fabric
Into a Succubus of memory

Even the indoor rose bush
Has flowered out of season
Adding a delicate tenderness
A pure ethereal beauty
To the heady mixture

Outside in the rain
The dead leaves on the garden path
Spiked into broken threads
By your high heals turning
As you turned to wave goodbye

A child waving from a distance
No adult could encounter
Your blue eyes wet with sobbing
Your white umbrella knocked and turned about
By a gust of wind


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 28th. - 29th. 2017.

                    2.

       Sunday Morning.


Alert and assured
I walk downstairs
To greet the sun

This is my happiest hour of the day
Before car doors bang
And the telephone rings

Now 1`m at ease with the whole wide world
Pouring the coffee
Counting the roses
Honey melting on my tongue -
You asleep in our darkened bedroom
Curled in your basketwork of dreams

But the moment your hand rests on my shoulder
I cease to be who I think I am


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
November 4th. - December 1st. 2017.