A Pattern of Veils. (Revised).

Soft delicate colours.

December rain drifting through greenery.

Droplets glistening on your skin
Reflect the bright face of the moon
Observed floating above a sheen of clouds.
Faults in the glass distort the imagery,
Trees and houses outside our bedroom window
Could be the fleeting shadows of an underwater city.

I am sure of few things, sometimes only your smile,

The touch of your hand in the silvery dark.

                                *

I wake up with a start,
You are not here beside me.

I walk from room to room in a somnambulist daze.
The coats are all dusty. The hats have turned grey on the hangers.

You are nowhere to be found.

I was sure you were with me all through the frosty night:

I can still feel the warmth of you hair on my face and my fingers;
Remember the light in your eyes when we made love.

                                 *

Soft, delicate colours.

December rain drifting through greenery.

I walk out into the garden to look for the last of the roses.

In a month or two you should be back here with me,
(Your aunt has informed me you have a date on your calendar.
Your passport in order. Your freedom to travel permitted).
But this endless waiting distorts time. The kitchen clock ticks slowly.
It is only five years, but it feels more like one hundred.

The morning rain cold on my bare skin.
The wind is stinging my cheek bone.

I turn to the north and shout out loud your name.

This garden is dappled with a patina of memories.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
Sketched 14th. - 29th. August 2018.
Reimagined and completed 30th. December 2019.
For Ivy, dreaming of a happy and settled New Year

Trevor J Potter's Art: September 1st. 2018. (Completed Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: September 1st. 2018. (Completed Poem).:                   1 . Scholars drawing arbitrary graphs Have decreed the onset of autumn Although the autumnal equinox Is more than thr...

Three Poems Written on Christmas Day.

The Complete Poems of Li Ch`ing - chao.


   This little book of poems in my pocket,
A whole way of life sheltered from the rain;
             Black lines on white pages.



                        Missing You.


Last night when I opened the window to touch the rain,
        Your tears ran down my cheeks, cold and salty,
      As though your face was pressed up close to mine.
        And yet our home was emptied of your laughter
      So long ago                        I cannot count the days.

         Christmas without you is no longer Christmas.
            This little book of poems that you gave me
              Is now a mute reminder of your absence.

                Black lines printed onto fragile pages.

        Streaks of winter rain course down the window.



                           The Simple Gift.


          This little book of poems that you gave me.
                Petals falling like a shower of snow.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
25th. December 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: December Daffodils. (Newly Revised Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: December Daffodils. (Newly Revised Version).: Daffodils in December? I wish they would fold back into sleep, we can wait a little longer for the spring. Your face on the pillow; th...

No Looking Back. (Postscript to my Japanese Calendar Sequence).

Farewell my Japanese Calendar.
Farewell my Hokusai prints.
For a year you have delighted me each morning
When I checked my appointments for the day.
You have taken my mind on a long and sinuous journey
Through fields and brooding mountains,
Beside lakes and mysterious rivers,
And across the echoing depths of dream filled seas.
For a year you have taught me a new way of seeing
That has transformed my perspective on the art of daily living.
For a year you have slowly taught me
The clear mindset of Zen.
But now I must put you away, among books in my bedroom library,
A mute but tangible memory of a strange and remarkable year.
And I must continue my day to day journey, each hour melding into
                                                                                                 another,
Until the pictures blur into strangeness,
And the future is simply a word.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
December 17th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: This Year December is Bleaker Than Ever..

Trevor J Potter's Art: This Year December is Bleaker Than Ever..:     The oceans are losing their oxygen. Fish are choking - like children on smog. It seems that winter comes early this year.     Rivul...

This Year December is Bleaker Than Ever.(Revised).

       The oceans are losing their oxygen.
  Fish are choking - like children on smog.
Before Autumn dawned the red leaves fell.

    Rivulets of hair on a white pillow.
Soto calligraphy that can only be read
           By her attentive lover.

    She drops the newspaper onto the floor.
Gently she drops it - tears smudge her cheeks.
How could she live in this world without him?

His tenderness dances in the black stream of words.
       Only he understands the depths of her grief.
 Only he understands why she weeps this morning.

      "Our unborn children cry out for their lives.
Should we listen to them - or succumb to our fears?"


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
7th. - 8th. - 13th. December 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Wave. The Month of February. (New Re-written V...

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Wave. The Month of February. (New Re-written V...: We forget the boats Barely buoyant in a trough of raw sea. The giant claw of water poised above them Dominates this blue world Almost c...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Tussy. .

Trevor J Potter's Art: Tussy. .: Tussy was not buried, Not swaddled by black earth Evolving into hillocks and                         dark hollows Gradually, season by ...

December on my Japanese Calendar. (New final line and other changes).

The first tea plants grew from the eyelids of Bodhidharma
When he snipped them off to keep himself awake
During long days and weeks of meditation.

Old legends cannot always be believed in
Although they are attractive enough to be almost true,
And green tea has a taste as sharp as Zen.

But no meditating monk would need a bowl of tea
To keep awake in this fearsome winter weather,
The sky an ice sheet mirroring the snow.

Three men, almost invisible beneath broad cloaks
That hang like bell tents from their stooping shoulders,
Cross a long white bridge with cautious footsteps,

They are following old footprints into open country
With barely a tree or boulder to offer them cover
If the wind should turn around to whip their faces.

Balanced between the limits of life and eternity
These travellers follow the ghost of a narrow road.
Snow blind and frozen they stumble along the way,

And because I cannot know, or seek out their destinations,
They remain enigmas trapped inside a time frame,
I can only guess at who they really were:

Exhausted merchants trudging through the snowfields,
Stubbornly pushing against the weight of winter
To reach the end of just another journey;
Or local farmers
Searching for the first inklings of spring?

                            *

This print by Hokusai has no known title.
Perhaps it is a riddle without an answer.
Perhaps it is a gateway to Satori.

I must trust each line he cut into the woodblock,
His eyes were clear as the sleepless Bodhidharma`s,
And he carved with care the truth as he perceived it.

His eyes were as clear as the eyes of the old Zen Master.
His pictures are mirrors made without a flaw.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 4th. - 31st. - November 30th. - December 1st.- 3rd. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Old Style Letters - New Version. (Completed poem)....

Trevor J Potter's Art: Old Style Letters - New Version. (Completed poem)....: It is like the old times. I sit writing letters to you, Pen on paper. No hurried text messages in a private code. Texts that can be wip...

Old Style Letters - (A poem in two parts).

                 1

It is like the old times.
I sit writing letters to you,
Pen on paper.
No hurried text messages in a private code.
Texts that can be wiped out in a moment,
Never to be stored in a perfumed bundle
Tied with a silk ribbon.

It is like the old times.
We are both avowedly old fashioned,
Preferring hard backs to videos,
Oil paints to photos;
Crops we have grown to packaged vegetables
Picked off a shelf in a supermarket.
We would live in a Vardo if we could do so,
But camping by the roadside is no longer viable.

It is like the old times.
I scrawl long letters to you
Believing you will keep them
Underneath your pillow.
(I keep yours in a jewellery box by the bedroom window).
We have found an integrity in outmoded ways,
A no nonsense strength that binds us together.

It is like the old times.
We have thrown away the new tat
And made the past our future;
We should learn at once the art of calligraphy
So that even our household notes are beautiful.

                 2.

There is a homeliness in simple things,
(My pinewood desk - the ticking clock -
The flow of ink on paper).
Such simple things are made to last,
To be of use - and not to fail.               

Yet we all must fail, retreat and fall,
That is the shadow on human nature;
But when our ashes are crushed and mixed,
Then scattered on the quiet water,
With luck these letters will remain
To tell our little story.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 24th. - 25th. - November 14th. - 22nd. - 23rd. - 25th. - 28th. 2019.
Note. It has been very difficult to find the structure of this poem, but now that I have split the poem into two parts it has gained a strength that it had previously lacked.

Song of the Sixties.

Whatever happened to Anna Banana?
Whatever happened to Kevin the Witch?
Whatever happened to Raymond from Sligo?
Whatever happened to Rex of the Road?
We all got lost in a Broadway fantasy -
Don`t you know?

Whatever happened to Zoe and Jailer?
Whatever happened to Bungalow Bill?
Whatever happened to Bobby Driscoll?
Whatever happened to me?
We all got dumped on the ash tip of history -
Don`t you know?

Last night we were somewhere - today we are nowhere.
When the spotlights go out - we must make do - or rot.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
November 18th. - 19th. 2019.
Last night while walking to a rehearsal of the Friendly Choir at The Kiln Theatre, I suddenly started to list the nick names and real names of a few of my friends and acquaintances from my now long ago youth and wondered why it all went so badly wrong.

The Gift that is Forever. (New Version).

The night was very still.
The hum of distant cars was lost
Behind the shimmering wall
Of a hundred cherry trees,
And the pink snow of blossom drifted soft
Upon the sleeping houses
Stealthily.

You snuggled close and warm, just like a kitten
Seeking sleep and safety in my room
While urban foxes roamed from yard to yard
Scavenging for scraps.

This was the first night that I learned to trust you,
To accept the absolution of your love
Gifted freely without a single question.
Your quiet hope revoked my selfishness.

I thought I had grown too old, too cynical to love,
A divorced man who despised the Easter story,
Who mocked the ancient customs,
But when you arrived on my doorstep bearing lilies,
Cradled in your arms with such great care
That not a single leaf was torn or crushed,
My fiercest doubts melted like the frost.

You looked into my eyes and gently smiled,
Lost for words I leapt and laughed like a child.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 23rd. - 27th. - November 15th. 2019.

Venice.

All my life I have cried for Venice,
The city built for mermaids
And sailing boats.

The city where the descendants of Ancient Rome
Are born with webbed feet and fins
And can swim like fishes

Months before they ever learn to walk.

The city where I learned to dance on water,
Transported by the music of Vivaldi
High above translucent moss green waves.

But now the seas have turned as black as ink,
Darkened by the smoke from fossil fuels
That stoke the fires of a billion factories,

Factories as far away as Philadelphia.

The black ink pours across the floors of marble
(That glisten under moonlight in St. Marks)
And stains the gilded chapels and the altar

With a rime of filth that stinks of kerosene.
And the people cough and retch in putrid air
As they struggle knee deep through acidic slime,

Slime that suffocates mute swans and fishes.

Throughout my life I have cried for fragile Venice.
At first my tears were tears of love and exile,
But now my tears are tears of loss and rage.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
13th. November 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Three short poems. (1) Wistfulness. (2) Sparrows i...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Three short poems. (1) Wistfulness. (2) Sparrows i...:                   1           Wistfulness. Writing a poem in autumn. Catching the falling leaves Before they touch the ground.   ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: September Poem. (Revised Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: September Poem. (Revised Version).:                            She loved me                                                  and in September She wore the curling leaves in...

Trevor J Potter's Art: L`Arlesienne.(New Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: L`Arlesienne.(New Version).: As though commanded by some unseen power I spoke out your name, loud and clear Impulsively shouting your name in the room That we once h...

One Hundred Poems Explained by the Nurse. (Illustration for November on my Japanese Calendar. Revised).

Hunched in a boat rocked by dark seas
The nurse is reciting one hundred poems
As though her whole life had been lived for this moment.
Tonight she looks far into the frightened eyes
Of her kneeling companion, gently touching her shoulder
As she calms her with soft spoken words.

The two women crouch low in the flimsy boat
While the oarsmen stand tall and dig deep for the shore
Their backs bending into the weight of their work.
A voice fierce with omens and treacherous dreams
Calls from the depths of the indigo ocean,
Cries that only the sailors can hear.

The nurse and her companion are land loving folk,
They are deaf to the subtle voice of the ocean,
The tall tales of sailors mean nothing to them.
The one hundred poems that the nurse reveals
In all their sonorous and intricate detail
Are songs of the meadows and meandering streams,

They are songs of the forests dissolving in mist;
Songs of the north lands man deep in snow.
Meanwhile in the prow of the wind ravaged boat
The lookout pulls hard on a long green rope
Taut as a Samurai`s bow in battle.
He pulls and pulls - the rope is snagged on the spine of a reef.

He spies through the waves strange corals and fishes
That seem to have come from a time beyond knowing,
A lost world far from the shores of Japan.
The women crouched in the depths of the boat
Know nothing of the visions that the lookout is scrying,
Their longing is for home and a quiet fireside chat.

The sky is the yellow of a November evening,
The long black hours are just minutes away,
But the boat has not yet reached a sheltered mooring,
That is why the oarsmen are digging so deep. -
A voice fierce with omens and treacherous dreams
Calls to the oarsmen from the depths of the ocean.

Where this journey commenced I cannot now tell you,
And where it will end is a riddle and a half.

Perhaps answers lie in the tall tales of sailors,
Or in the one hundred poems explained by the nurse.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
13th. - 14th. - 15th. September. - 18th. - 31st. October 2019. - 

4 th. March 2023.

From the print by Hokusai.

Three short poems. (1) Wistfulness. (2) Sparrows in Flight. (3) Transitions.

                  1


          Wistfulness.


Writing a poem in autumn.
Catching the falling leaves
Before they touch the ground.


                   2

                    Sparrows in Flight.


The shadows of birds darting passed my window;
        Never again in this exact formation; 
              Never again at precisely 10.


               3

           Transitions.


She studies her face in the water.
A stone falls - SPLASH.
When the ripples are gone
Who will be watching.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 30th. 2019.
November 11th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Japan.(Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Japan.(Revised).: I did not know Mount Fuji was so large. The artist has certainly come up with a powerful image, Part real - part picture postcard. Saili...

The Beautiful Night Dream of Li Qingzhao. From the Chinese (Revised).

I will never forget the time
I was so drunk the beautiful crimson pavilions
Spun about my head like wheeling flamingos.
My late night boat,
Lost among a thousand lotuses,
The flowers so many,
So tightly woven together
It seemed unlikely that we would ever be released
From this kingdom of floating blossoms.
In fear I cried out loudly to the invisible water Buddhas,
How to get free
How to get free
And a whole cliff face of startled egrets
And screeching gulls took flight.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 28th. 2019.
A response to the poems of Li Qingzhao, the wonderful Song Dynasty female poet. I fell in love with her original poem, and after reading a strictly word for word translation I responded by writing my very free version. I have made some small additions, especially the flamingos and Buddhas. I was trying to imagine how I, a twenty first century European, would have written this poem as a completely original work of art.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Private Photo-Shoot. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Private Photo-Shoot. (Revised).: I lift your photograph off the shelf with a nervous hand. I should have smoothed back that wild tangle of auburn before I adjusted the c...

Cranes on the Ground and in Flight, Mount Fuji in the Background.

Dark blue Fuji.
Two Cranes soar up to the peak;
Autumn leaves caught on the wind.

Their companions cackle far below them.
Blue is a melancholy colour;
A dark shroud over our memories.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 20th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Random Thoughts While Standing in the Groundling Q...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Random Thoughts While Standing in the Groundling Q...:                         Random Thoughts While Standing in the Groundling`s Queue. Fragments of the past come to the surface Just like ...

The Silk Road.

The road carrying the jewel of truth
Traverses land and sea, desert and mountain,
On rough tracks and motorways,
Airways and railways,
Stretching from dusty Beijing to rainy London,
From the Hindu heartlands to Szechuan.

The road carrying the jewel of truth
Crosses lakes and rivers, straights and oceans
On ships and bridges, through undersea tunnels,
Transporting smartphones, fabrics and spices;
New ideas whispered in a medley of languages;
Old ideas printed in little red books.

The road carrying the jewel of truth
Has many highways and intricate byways
Dropped like threads of delicate silk weave
Over the nations of Europe and Asia.
Once trod by Nestorians and Buddhist scholars,
Now by the purveyors of mass produced goods.

I despise border guards, all visas and barriers;
But love the multitude of religions and cultures
That bloom on this planet like flowers in June.
My homeland is sick with xenophobic delusions
But the road that carries the jewel of truth
Still glints in the sunlight of my eloquent dreams.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
9th. - 10th. October 2019.

The Offering.

She asked for one flower from my garden,
A single rose to be placed as a prayer
On the family shrine in her suburban home.

I do not know who this woman is,
An Indian lady small as an infant,
Her old skin wrinkled as an autumn leaf,

But when she asked her face was a picture of happiness,
So I allowed her to pick my favourite rose,
The yellow blossom transparent in sunlight.

It was no great kindness for me to do this,
The flowers in my garden are for my neighbours to look at,
A gift of colour these October days.

But because she smiled I allowed her to pick that one blossom,
And take it home into her private world.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
October 4th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Love Poem.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Love Poem.: These are my words I throw them high UP into the air To make their own way in the world & hope that you will catch them Before they ...

A Lesson in Seeing.

Sumi-e,
That is what my poems aspire to,
A flick of strong colour
On hand made paper
Hinting at delicate cherry blossom
Or a mountain sketched in black and white,
But seeming more real
Than the actual mountain.

Sumi-e paintings are vivid with soul,
They pulsate with life;
The careful music of Monk, or Bach,
Visualised with the swish of an ink laden brush
By a solitary master
In a quiet house.
Even this robin, frozen in time,
Seems about to chirrup and hop.
I touch the picture to seek his heart
Beating firmly beneath the surface.

I put away my book of instructions.
My hand grows tense when I hold a brush.
It would take me decades to paint like this,
And to be honest I do not have the patience.
Things that seem effortless, as easy as breathing,
Take half a lifetime to achieve,
But at least I have my palette of words,
Thin lines sketched swiftly on scraps of paper.
With these I can perhaps begin
To tell a meaningful story.

Sumi-e landscapes vivid with soul,
That is what my poems aspire to.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
November 16th. 2018. - September 22nd. - 23rd. - 29th. 2019.

The Base of Meguro, Shimo - Meguro. Illustration for October on my Japanese Calendar.

Seen from a distance
Mount Fuji seems tiny,
Smaller than the lone man
Climbing the path
That skirts the wide base of the heights of Meguro
Soaring sheer and absolute in the white morning light.
He carries a straight stick across his shoulders,
The weight of the bundle that hangs from the stick
Seems to unnerve him,
To pull him backwards,
But his gaze is fixed on the climb before him,
He concentrates with the ferocity of an old Zen Master.

Other folk are trudging a different pathway,
Some to - some from the small thatched dwellings
Huddled tightly together
As though they are desperate to keep safe and warm.
This perhaps is a mild day in early October,
But winter storms are now not far away,
And the people walking the pathway near to the village
Wear thicker coats than were usual a month or two back.
But the lone man climbing the steep mountain track
Is dressed in a simple indigo shirt
As though it were still the high days of summer.

The weight of the bundle is pulling him backwards,
But he resists the pull and struggles to climb
The path to the other side of the mountain,
And a clearer view of distant Fuji.
But whether or not he completes his Journey,
And for how many days he trudges the roads,
These things are not for us to decipher
As we carefully study the print in its frame.
The artist has painted one moment in time;
Just a few minutes later then all could be different.
Perhaps the man would be dropping his bundle.
Perhaps he would have walked right out of the scene.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 17th. - 26th. - September 16th. 2019.
Note. When Hokusai made this print Meguro appears to have been very rural, now it is more or less a part of modern day glass and concrete Tokyo. I thought about referring to this in the poem, but it would have disrupted the sense and broken the mood.

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: The Play. (New Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: 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,...

Monday Afternoon by the Welsh Harp. (Rewritten).

Making love in the park was not a good idea
However romantic the notion may have seemed
Before we put the idea into practice.

The cool October breeze was always going to be a problem,
But the squawking of the Moorhens had never been so loud,
And empty glades mysteriously fill with people
When privacy is looked for.

Our quiet tryst by the local reservoir
Felt like a stop off at a concrete lay by,
And the distant clank of cranes on the new estate
Came nowhere close to rivalling Tchaikovsky
However much you talked about Swan Lake.

That nosey Spaniel with the sodden paws
Cut short our interest in the great out doors,
But when we got home to an empty house
We quickly settled down on the settee
To ginger cake and mugs of Earl Grey Tea.
This proved relaxing, completely free of strife 

So unlike our awkward take on country life.

And the old gas fire hissed out a blast of heat
That frazzled naked stomachs, thighs and feet.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 9th. - 12th. 2019. - December 12th. 2021.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Villa Sazai. (New Version). Illustration for ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Villa Sazai. (New Version). Illustration for ...: Why are they looking at the mountain, These shapely girls who do not show their faces? Nothing unusual appears to be happening on the dis...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Peterloo, August 2019. (Revised Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Peterloo, August 2019. (Revised Version).: The blood of the martyrs of Peterloo Wells up anew through tarmac and concrete Pure springs of a river that slowly filters Southwards th...

Peterloo, August 2019. (Revised Version).

The blood of the martyrs of Peterloo
Wells up anew through tarmac and concrete
Pure springs of a river that slowly filters
Southwards through farmlands and city streets,
In crimson capillaries pulsating with anger,
With hope, with despair, with a hatred of tyranny,
With love and respect for both neighbour and stranger,
And an absolute insistence on probity.
The capillaries filter through moorlands and woodlands,
Along the rail tracks and over the airways
Until they seep into the shadowy marshlands,
The suppurating sores of lies and hypocrisy
That weep and bleed deep underneath Westminster,
Defiling our parliament and locking down liberty.
But slowly, slowly, the blood of the martyrs
Will clean these sores, dissolve the gangrene,
Make healthy and strong the Body Politic:
Truth is the backbone that strengthens democracy.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 29th. - 30th. 2019.

The Last Splash of Colour.

It is the final flick of the paintbrush that mattered,
Not the completed portrait;
Finished works of art are not the concern of the artist,
Once something has been done it has been done,
No, it was the final flick of the overladen paintbrush
Crashing colour against the bare plasterwork
Of the studio wall
That was the true farewell,
The last act of creation.
Beyond that terse statement there was little left to do
Except to shut and lock the studio door,
And retreat into the quiet hours of waiting.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
26th. August 2019.

Tea Plantation of Katakura, Horse being Shod. (Revised).

The horse is king.
No animal or human
In the wide landscape
Is as powerful as he is.
He is not a captive in the small stockade,
He could easily leap the fences
And gallop far and wide
Across the yellow landscape,
Trampling the tea fields,
Kicking up dust on the narrow roads
That lead to all parts of the island.
This is his kingdom,
And he claims the right to gallop freely
Wherever he wishes,
Wherever his instincts guide him.

The humans are here to serve him,
And the stockade they have created
Is convenient for the time being;
Sooner or later he shall escape to the herds
Awaiting his return
In a distant forest
On the slopes of a mountain.
In the meantime its his kingly pleasure
To allow the blacksmith to shoe him,
To give him new iron hooves
On this pleasant afternoon
In Suruga Province, Japan.
He bows his head to no one
Although he appears to do so
When the bit is between his teeth
And the saddle upon his back.
One day he will escape this island
And swim to the shores of Hokkaido.

The horse is king,
Although he appears a servant
To the humans who think they own him.

And the slopes of distant Fuji
Are less inscrutable than he is.
The rugged icon lacks the potency
Of his living presence.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 26th. - August 19th. 2019.
Illustration for the month of September in my Japanese Calendar.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Kernow. (New Longer Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Kernow. (New Longer Version).: Away too long But Cornwall forgives my disavowal, Allows me to walk her rocky paths once more, But forbids my entrance into fierce Tinta...

Kernow. (Completed Poem).

Away too long
But Cornwall now forgives my years of absence,
Welcomes me back to trek her cliffs and moors,
But bars my entrance into high Tintagel.

This country is my true home, yet I`ve seldom lived here,
My name is written on these windswept shores,
But tonight I`ll ride the A Roads back to London,
To dwell once more among bleak concrete towers.

I am a child of the salt frothed sands, the restless waters;
The sluggish Thames is dull and grey to my eyes,
But I am tied to London by cords of sloth and habit,
It seems I live there just because I live there.

I need more space to plant rose trees and apples.
To paint and draw in sunlight; to write my poems.
The city lacks deep vistas, the proximity of legends.
It`s time I moved south west, affirmed my true identity.

This morning I trudge the narrow clifftop paths
Beneath the hulking shadow of Tintagel.
A rockfall has made the castle inaccessible,
And all I can do is stare up at the walls.

And yet, although I cannot cross the bridge
The legends that haunt this place seem to whisper
In the hissing surf and the shrill cries of the seagulls
Swooping low above the foam.

And I hear my name murmured in the cold waves
As they echo through the vaults of Merlin`s cave.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 12th. - 13th. - 16th. - 27th. 2019.
December 12th. - 16th. 2021.

Note. My first name is a Cornish name, and I spent a lot of time in Cornwall when a child and adolescent. I feel more at home there than anywhere else on the planet.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Artist, The Model and The Critic. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Artist, The Model and The Critic. (Revised).: This face is not a mask, The thick layers of make up Accentuate her beauty, Changes fault lines into graceful                          ...

Husband and Wife. (Revised Version).

You knocked.                      I opened.
A thousand birds flew into my heart
          Singing your praises.


           My heart is a drum.
A drum echoing with summer birdsong.


My heart riffs to the beat of your heart,
     To the pulse of your breathing,
      To the dance of your laughter.
 When we kiss we are one perfect instrument
Tuned to the world
                                 and to each other.


When we live apart
                             We are
                                         broken
                                                     chords
Jangling loud                     
                                             in vacant spaces.
        Sunless voids that shape no echo,
Sound no depths,                 no clear acoustic,
        Where harmony is a lonely cry
               Lost in the wilderness.


When we live apart
Our lives are empty,
Hollowed out, detached from meaning;
Forsaken songs at the edge of silence.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 4th. - 5th. - 30th. -August 3rd, 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Old Style Letters.(Completed Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Old Style Letters.(Completed Version).: It is like the old times. I sit writing letters to you, Pen on paper. No hurried text messages in a private code That shall be wiped ou...

Old Style Letters.(Completed Version).

It is like the old times.
I sit writing letters to you,
Pen on paper.
No hurried text messages in a private code
That shall be wiped out in a moment,
And never stored in a bundle
Tied by a silk ribbon.

It is like the old times.
We are both avowedly old fashioned,
Preferring books to mobiles,
Oil paint to photos,
Crops we have grown to tacky groceries
Picked off a shelf in a supermarket.
We would live in a Vardo if we could do so,
But camping by the roadside is no longer legal.

It is like the old times.
I scrawl to you long letters
Believing you will keep them
Underneath your pillow,
And never press an icon to wipe them away.
We have found an integrity in old fashioned things,
A no-nonsense strength that binds us together.

And when the stone memorials have split apart and fallen
Deep in St. Mary`s churchyard,
With luck my letters will remain
To tell our little story.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 24th. - 25th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Time Capsule.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Time Capsule.: The last present you gave me was a cactus. Well, that is what it was all about then, not the long drawn out kisses on Hampstead Heath, ...

The Artist, The Model and The Critic. (Revised).

This face is not a mask,
The thick layers of make up
Accentuate her beauty,
Changes fault lines into graceful
                                     highlights,
And flatters her strong cheekbones.
The critic was a fool who thought this
                                  face a mask.

And look how sensitive the glance
                                      of her eyes,
This girl with the raven hair
Looking shyly back over her shoulder
Into the gaze of the artist.
The critic did not look into her eyes,
He wanted to see a mask and so he saw one.

The artist had seen her with the eyes
                                   of the sculptor
He had struggled to be
Before his lungs were ruined by marble dust
And he resorted to paint and pencil.-
Stretched awkwardly across the single bed
The girl looks over her shoulder into his eyes,
Trusting him to observe every part of her body,
Every shadow in her mind.
He works with the skill of a surgeon,
Or cartographer of the human psyche,
                      Of the depths of the wayward soul.-
His concentration is absolute
As he guides the sable brush.

He sought solace on the streets, but
this girl was not a prostitute, her shyness
                                              indicates this,
And perhaps he had paid her more
Than the customary five Francs,
That is if his dealer had allowed him,
Modigliani was, after all, a destitute young artist,
Unfashionable and struggling to make ends meet.
And something about her makes me think this girl
Was a favourite model,
                        A trusted co-creator,
                        An equal in the workplace,
Someone he cared for more than a means
                                                     to an end,
A friend that he respected.
Something in the loving tilt of her head
Tells me this is so.

No, he has not portrayed her features as a mask,
There is a desperate sorrow beneath the artifice.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 3rd, 2018. - July 18th. - 19th. - August. 5th. 2019.
Developed from the unfinished poem Amedeo Modigliani I sketched in April 2018.

L`Arlesienne.(New Version).

As though commanded by some unseen power
I spoke out your name, loud and clear
Impulsively shouting your name in the room
That we once had shared that long ago autumn.

Until that instant I had not thought of you,
I was busy thinking of other things - my Sunday lunch,
And what I should do in the long hot evening
To cauterize the wound of loneliness.

And then for some reason I called out your name;
And the radio switched off, and then back on again
By itself, as though to the cadence of my calling;
As though your name had some power over the airways.

For a minute or two I could not speak or think.
I was not in a dream, but by calling out your name,
It seemed I had stopped the transmission of L`Arlesienne,
Bizet`s elegant score about unrequited love.

And for the rest of the day I sat lonely and listless.
Thumbing through photographs. Staring out of the window.
Watching the shadows lengthen and deepen.
Silently waiting for the phone to ring.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 14th. - November 7th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: One Thousand Pictures of the Ocean. (With Note ab...

Trevor J Potter's Art: One Thousand Pictures of the Ocean. (With Note ab...: The world of my childhood is stone cold dead, Miniaturised computers have destroyed it, Reduced it to the shadow-lands of memory. The f...

One Thousand Pictures of the Ocean. ( Plus newly extended note). Illustration for August on my Japanese Calendar.

The world of my childhood is stone cold dead,
Miniaturised computers have destroyed it,
Reduced it to the shadow-lands of memory.

The fishermen in this print by Hokusai
Are so far back in time they might as well have been
A long lost variant of what we call humanity
To the high-tech wizards that we have now become.

That does not mean they lived without technology,
They studied the clouds and followed the arc of the sun
When they put out to sea.
But wooden oars, and ropes, and sails of oiled cloth
Were all they ever needed,
To set an accurate course and then complete their journey.

The shoals of fish were always where expected;
Speed was dictated by currents, the state of the weather,
And time was measured by the seasonal length of the day.
They slept at night and got on with their tasks in the morning,
Having plenty of time to sit and watch and play.

The fishermen in this print are slumped in rest,
Cooking a meal over a smouldering brazier
While rippling waves knock their little boat
Against the wooden quay.
The evening sunlight reveals a soft horizon
Fading to yellow as the sun sinks in the west.

When a child I enjoyed many such simple hours.
Rod in hand I stood by a shadow flecked river
Watching the line for a sudden flicker or dip.
That time was a century after the death of Hokusai,
And thirty four years before I touched a computer;

But I was happy then in the calm of the long hazy summer,
At ease in the quiet simplicity of the moment,
The slow easy melding of day into untroubled day.
My bag was heavy with books, with apples, a Thermos of coffee;
I had yet to find room for the products of Silicon Valley.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
June 11th. - July 8th. - 9th. - 10th. - 12th. 2019.  

Note.In the light of Climate Change and the chaos of present day Capitalism, I have recently come to the conclusion that the Romantic Socialism, (or Pacific Anarchism), described by William Morris in his book News From Nowhere, is perhaps the most sensible way forward for the Human Species if we wish to survive and prosper on this planet. Money and Property were abolished, Land farmed in common for the good of all, Everyone was truly equal, Traditional Arts and Crafts flourished,  Massed Produced factory products confined to the waste bin of History. The Houses of Parliament became a storehouse for dung, and the ugly monuments to politicians removed from Westminster Abbey. Morris was writing just before the advent of the universal availability of the motor car and the characters in the book travelled either by horse drawn transport or simply walked. They lived long healthy lives, thought the desire for great wealth infantile and barbaric, and had abolished all class distinctions and poverty by treating everyone equally, including visitors from abroad. To save the planet we certainly need to adopt radical solutions, and living a simpler way of life is certainly a step in the right direction. Nanotechnology, although initially funded by capitalism, will help create a more radical and equitable form of universal equality and human rights than we have at present, but in time some people will wish to live even more simply and perhaps adopt the William Morris view of a fulfilling life style. When super powerful miniature computers, or motes, can do all the day to day work for us, from cleaning the house to actually building the house from earth and water, and all free of charge, then many people will think it a great joy to make their own clothes and furniture by hand. Art, philosophy and religion will survive the Nanotechnological revolution because human creativity comes from deep within us and makes us human. Mote sized computers will look after the practical things, small scale and large, and will regenerate and improve their technology when we ask them to do so. This will be the end of the filthy industrial society that we have become addicted to and is currently frying the planet. There will be room at last for humans and other species in a much cleaner world, and both obscene poverty and obscene wealth will be abolished because there will be no need for either of these evils to exist. We are on the very edge of this new world, let us bravely and joyfully embrace it. Neither Marxism nor Capitalism were ever so radical, that is because they were products of the old industrial society, the society that is now being superseded by advances in science and our awareness of the damage that the old filthy industries have caused.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter. July 11th. - 16th. 2019. 

A Poem for Priscilla. (New Version).

Sitting in shadow
Watching the sunshine happen
In a different room,
A room with no ceiling
And full of flowers,
I think of you,
Dead in the ground four years already,
Your bright laughing eyes
Masked with peonies,
Your mouth full of smiles
Now sprouting red roses,
Your voice as quiet as a stone.
You were the first girl who took me seriously and stood by me,
Now I have no one who hears what I say.

Now the whole world is deaf to my longing,
Blind to my search for a happier life,
I am just an old codger sitting alone
In a dark little room with an FM receiver,
A Micro Wave to heat up my dinner,
An old plastic telephone.
I sit by my window and look at the flowers
In my neighbours garden, that I never can enter,
And dream of the wild guy I once used to be
Who danced with a girl with dark laughing eyes.
She was the first girl who took me seriously, she was the first girl who
                                                                                            stood by me,
Now I have no one who hears what I say.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 28th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Northern Poems (1) A Poem for Priscilla. (2) L...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Northern Poems (1) A Poem for Priscilla. (2) L...:                             1 .              A Poem for Priscilla. Sitting in shadow Watching the sunshine happen In a different room...

Liverpool.

Outside the rain splashed windows of the coach
The city went about the synchronised routines
Of week-a-day existence.
A crowd of schoolgirls, socks almost in the puddles,
Raised fingers and pulled faces as we passed,
And the occasional dog, ignoring awkward humans,
Dragged on the leash to find a reason to bark.
Once more I am back in Liverpool, the other city in my life,
But only for a moment, today just passing through
On the eight hour trek from Southport down to London,
From seaside posh to inner city smugness.
I like Liverpool in the rain, the dulling of the colours
As the grey clouds wash across the morning sky
Like muslin curtains drenched in dirty water.
Yes, I love the intimacy of the morning rain
Giving commuters a chance to curse and grumble
To neighbours they would otherwise not speak to,
And schoolgirls the right to shout and raise two fingers
To a coach full of people with sleepy faces.
This is the city where I learned to be a teenager,
Where, released from parental hindrance I wandered late
With my girlfriend through a blur of empty streets,
The clubs shut for the night, and the unseen ships
Wailing their mournful Siren Songs of longing,
A weird background music to our intimate talk,
And the occasional nifty snog in a darkened doorway.
I can`t go back to those times, they are far too long ago now,
And most of my boyhood friends are ash underground,
But Liverpool, you are still the blunt knife in my heart,
The deep red wound that, Thank God, can never be mended.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 26th. - 27th. 2019.   
For my friends who were in the Cavern when it was real.

Waiting.

A bright but cloudy afternoon.
Truculent flecks of rain dancing on cobwebs
That shimmer between wild rose trees
A delicate lethal beauty.

I walk in the garden, not minding the chill drops
That now and then flick against my skin
Enforcing a slight shiver.
I imagine arrows of ice, not the tears of traumatised children.

I am missing you, my girl, now trapped in the hospital
Until that morning when you can once more run,
Play ball with me for hours, turn cartwheels by the river.
Two years since you slipped and fell, it appears you are nearly better,

Or so the surgeon informs me, with simplistic anodyne words.
Meanwhile I walk alone, in the confines of my garden,
Waiting the expected call to make the box room ready;
Put flowers in vases; get out the carpet sweeper.

A nearby thrush suddenly starts to sing.
I wish this song was your voice, calling through the rain.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 18th. - 19th. 2019.

The Red and White Trainers.

Red and white trainers,
Brand new and glistening,
Luxury items designed to dazzle,
Catch the eye of a passing spectator,
Perhaps, even
Snare a lover,
As you ran by the river laughing and larking,
Scaring the birds so they flew off their perches
Up into a sky the colour of pewter,
The cool spring wind tilting their wings,
Frisking their feathers
As they ducked and weaved
Then skid-addled for cover.

And you, my lovely,
Half skallywag, half woman,
Enjoyed a transgressive moment of freedom
As you skipped through the cold waves,
Cartwheeled in the meadow,
All the time shouting
Look at me - Look at me,
How fabulous I am
In my red and white trainers.

But I, feeling old,
Too aware of your beauty,
Stood by, unmoving,
Heart breaking with wonder.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 12th. - 17th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Red Fuji. (N ew Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Red Fuji. (N ew Version).: July, month of the sun god. He opens the doors of his furnace To scorch our faces And turn the green land ochre. I take the calendar o...

Red Fuji. (New Revised Version).

July, month of the sun god.
He opens the doors of his furnace
To scorch our faces
And turn the green land ochre.

I take the calendar off the kitchen wall
To study a startling image of Mount Fuji,
An icon of power that burns my retina
As I stare into the fierceness, the searing slopes
Of melted rocks streaked with jagged shards
Of wounds and scars gouged by white hot lava.
A fiery cone, old as the earth is old,
That dominates a placid summer sky
Patterned with fleecy clouds.

I sense that it is evening, although the sky is blue
And the transient clouds frail as new born lambs
Lost in their wide new world.
Nothing in this painting is plain or simple.
It is the evening sun that turns the mountain fiery,
And the lava streams are merely gullies of snow
Left over from the freezing winter days,
But the illusion of a mountain made of fire
Is the terse reality of the artist`s vision.

There are no people portrayed in this painting,
No wise observers of the powers of nature,
No tired old travellers lugging heavy loads
From one part of the island to another.
If there was just one merchant trudging through the heat
Then perhaps this vision would cease to terrify,
But we, who live outside the time and space
That the artist Hokusai inhabited
Are left alone to imagine what he thought
When he first prepared the printing blocks and paper.

July, month of the sun god;
The whole world is on fire,
Or so it seems.
And we look on afraid       lost        and without hope.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 11th. - 12th. _ June 12th. - 14th. 2019.
Illustration for the month of July in my Japanese Calendar.

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

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Survivors. (Revised).: The whistling of the kettle seems to indicate That this lonely house is in fact my home Not just a rickety, ramshackle concrete shell Pe...

A Lass Unparalleled.

You walked in through the door and took over my life.
One moment I was an individualist without a care or a sous,
The next I had a partner for life.
                                                    I did not try to impress you,
I sat talking to your mother about the news and the weather
While she smoked a cigarette and ate my chocolate mousse,
But your silence told more stories than any word she spoke,
And your eyes never looked away from me.
                                                    That night we slept together,
Our limbs intertwined, your head lolling on my shoulder,
While the traitor clock ticked away the hours,
                                                              And a frosty moon
                                                Shimmered through the window.
                                Your mother fretted in her lonesome room,
She sought to be with me, but it was you who took me over,
With the absolute integrity of your love.
                                                You are a lass unparalleled, and I
Am honoured by your quiet and thoughtful presence.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 5th. 2019. 

The Survivors. (Revised).

The whistling of the kettle seems to indicate
That this lonely house is in fact my home
Not just a rickety, ramshackle concrete shell
Peopled by silent ghosts.

To counteract my loneliness I occupy my days
Contemplating images that my imagination creates
Deep inside the flick house that is my brain.
Nothing new materialises from my looking,

Every flickering image is just a memory
Viewed in such a way that it seems an original,
A polished fragment of my wishful thinking.
The more that I remember the sadder I become.

But it is not the dead folk that make me sad and wistful,
Their days are done, today is not their country,
They would be strangers in this lonely villa
That once they bought on spec, restored and furnished,

And quickly made their own.
It is the living folk that now I mourn, despair of,
Those who think that history is humbug,
Who would wreck my home to build a block of flats.

I belong here. I am a pensioner but I`m not selling.
My past cannot be pawned to bounty hunters.
This husk of a house is the story of who I am
Writ into wood and concrete with sorrow and with love.

The whistling of the kettle puts me at my ease.
I shall sit in my rocking chair and drink a cup of tea.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 3rd. - 7th. - 8th. 2019.
I was thinking of D Day Veterans when I revised this poem. Too often they are not treated with due respect by local councils and the state, but are fussed over by the media and politicians when a significant anniversary comes around.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Breaking the Code. (Revised Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: 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, ...

The Gift of Music. (Completed Version).

I played the recorder,
People laughed,
They said the electric plank was the only thing,
Rock n Roll would dominate the future.
But the recorder is a beautiful instrument,
A pipe that rings like dulcet bells
Softly echoing through ancient hallways,
Or Skylarks and Swallows on Midsummers Eve
Greeting the sun with mellifluous voices
From the shelter of my garden.

When I found I loved you
I gave you my recorder,
It lay in your hands more easily than in mine,
And your blue eyes laughed when you began to blow,
Shape in the air your elegant dances.
Being a Gypsy you are a gifted player.
The whole house filled with the scent of roses,
The deep south sweetness of new picked oranges,
The rumpus of children in their room upstairs,
Your music is ancient and wild and delightful.

At night in my arms the silence claims you,
But deep in the silence I hear your songs,

Songs without words that would have slept in the shadows
If I had not given to you my prized recorder.

And Rock n Roll? It is an old mans thing.
It seems so distant from who we are.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 28th. 2019. 

Trevor J Potter's Art: Under the Bridge, Poems 1 - 2 - 3 & 4. Illustratio...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Under the Bridge, Poems 1 - 2 - 3 & 4. Illustratio...:       Under the Bridge, Poem 1. Under the curved bow of this bridge The river, a placid mirror Reflecting nothing. The fisherman, cas...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Short Poem About Bees. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Short Poem About Bees. (Revised).: I keep a nest of bees under my bonnet, Where they reside, restricted and yet free, Safe as houses, long miles from fields of wheat Soake...

The Broken Sanctuary. (Revised).

We did not expect to find these pictures on our computer.
Now we understand how cruel pornography is.
It is the clawing of the sacramental out of the human
And thus transforming the naive, the quietly innocent
Into a cheap commodity,
Something to be sold on line.
A kiss in the dark is merely a kiss in the dark
When viewed from this perspective,
And the long happy hours that we secretly spent together
Changed into a peep show by a sly, self righteous photographer
Peering in through our window, Leica pressed to his nose.
He can only see what the digital camera sees,
He can noway perceive the mystery, the tenderness of this love
Between such very different, and diffident, lonely people
Born decades apart, and in two antagonistic cultures
That so rarely come together,
The Roma and the city dweller.
All he can see is a man and a dark haired woman,
Her bridal gown neatly laid out on the table,
Their naked bodies entwined on the hotel bed.
We did not expect to find these pictures on our computer.
We cried for days when we first caught sight of them.
But the truth that we own cannot be found in hazy photos,
So we take life as it comes, and try very hard to forgive.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 20th. - 21st. 2019.
Partly inspired by various modern takes on Petrarch.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Under the Bridge, Poems 1 - 2 & 3. Illustration fo...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Under the Bridge, Poems 1 - 2 & 3. Illustration fo...:       Under the Bridge, Poem 1. Under the curved bow of this bridge The river, a placid mirror Reflecting nothing. The fisherman, cas...

Under the Bridge. Poem 3. New Long Version.

Movement and silence
Frozen in time,
The mountain has caste no shadow.

There are no shadows in this picture.
The sky, a white and blue mirror
Reflecting nothing.

The water absorbing white and indigo
Is brother and sister to the serene sky
That lacks both sun and moon.

Merchants crossing the bow shaped bridge
Were sketched for no apparent reason
Except to make the bridge seem real,

More real than the inkling of a dream
Fixed forever on wood and paper.

I turn the calendar to the wall.
I can no longer look at this picture.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 8th. - 17th. 2018.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Homage to Karole Armitage.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Homage to Karole Armitage.: Blonde dancer Express with living sculpture A clarity sublime More cogent than simple messages Sprayed on concrete balustrades Of cram...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Californian Buddhist Wedding.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Californian Buddhist Wedding.: The cicadas in the distant gardens presaged heat. In those moments the world seemed transfigured by hope As we stood side by side on the ...

Under the Bridge, Poems 1 - 2 - 3 & 4. Illustration for the month of June on my Japanese Calendar. (Three poems and a Coda).

      Under the Bridge, Poem 1.


Under the curved bow of this bridge
The river, a placid mirror
Reflecting nothing.

The fisherman, casting his line, stirs no ripples.
The cargo boats seem fixed upon the water
Although the oars dig deep,

Dig deep through the glassy sun glitzed surface
With great effort,
But the boats seem never to have moved,
Never to have known a harbour.
Their cargoes are bound for nowhere
Although the crewmen sweat and heave.

Travellers climb the steep curve of the bridge
As though it were a mountain.
They cling onto the railings for dear life.
And yet they also seem to travel nowhere,
The bridge the start and finish of their journeys
However hard they struggle:
No roads are visible on either shore.

I cannot accept this river does not flow,
I want to lob a brick into the stillness,
Then watch the waves break loose.

                            *

     Under the Bridge, Poem 2. 


Sketched with simple brush strokes, black and white,
Mount Fuji dominates the far horizon,
A prayer in stone that cannot be erased.

Overarching the foreground the bow shaped bridge
Appears huge when compared to the distant mountain,
So small beneath the evening clouds.

The bow of the bridge seems to span the world,
But it is only a footbridge built with cheap wood
That crosses a river of no importance.

All things that folk build are merely temporary,
We are no stronger than Beavers slowing a stream
With dams that a fierce storm will break,

But Mount Fuji shall remain until the rocks catch fire
In the final conflagrations of the sun.


                           * 

     Under the Bridge, Poem 3.


Movement and silence
Frozen in time,
The mountain has caste no shadow.

There are no shadows in this picture.
The sky, a white and blue mirror
Reflecting nothing.

The water absorbing white and indigo
Is brother and sister to the serene sky
That lacks both sun and moon.

Merchants crossing the bow shaped bridge
Were sketched for no apparent reason
Except to make the bridge seem real,

More real than the inkling of a dream
Fixed forever on wood and paper.

I turn the calendar to the wall.
I can no longer look at this picture.


                         *

    Under the Bridge, Poem 4.

                  Coda.


Stillness and movement delicately combined
To create a tense tranquility
That puzzles both the eye - and mind,
Transform this painting into something that is more
Than a simple depiction of river - bridge and shore,
It is as though the world is frozen for a moment,
A moment stilled until the picture fades
And I remove it from my kitchen door.

The blues and whites have melted into grey.
The people seem less vital than they were
When first created by old Hokusai
As he worked his magic on the fragile paper.
It is as though, with precise art, he found a way
To depict clearly the weirdness of Satori, -
Stillness and movement delicately combined
To create a tense tranquillity in the puzzled mind.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 18th. - 21st. - May 6th. - 7th. - 8th. - 13th. - 17th. - 24th. 2019.

The Nightwatchman. (Completed Poem).

Engraved upon night,
Gaunt, solemn as ruins,
The moonlit wharves appear
Never to have known
The ear splitting dissonance of engines,
The clamour of voices,
The scurry of shoes.

At home in your arms
I do not fear
These hours of silent watchfulness;
The sparse silhouettes
Distorted by moonlight;
The threat of a flick knife
Uncovered in shadow,
The sure footed thieves;
But only know
The warmth of your presence
Curled deep into darkness,
The pulse of your breath,

Your fingers guided by praise.

Only this love makes life seem special.
Only this love makes life worthwhile.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 25th. 1967. Notes edited 23rd. October 2012.
Poem completed, April 30th. 2019.
For Ivy.

Trevor J Potter's Art: September Poem. (Revised Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: September Poem. (Revised Version).:                            She loved me                                                  and in September She wore the curling leaves in...

The Gift that is Forever.(First Draft).

The night was very still.
The hum of distant cars was lost
Behind the shimmering wall
Of a hundred cherry trees.
Only when the springtime rain washed down
The concrete channel of the motorway
Would speeding traffic become a raw wound of sound
Stinging our ears.
But tonight there was no rain,
And the pink snow of blossom drifted soft
Upon the sleeping houses
Silently.

You snuggled close and warm, just like a kitten
Seeking sleep and safety in my room
While the urban foxes roamed from yard to yard
Hunting scraps of food.
This was the first night that I learned to trust you,
To accept the absolution of your love
Gifted freely, and without a single question
As I huddled in the sanctuary of your presence.
I had lived a lifetime before this Easter Sunday
When you arrived on my doorstep bearing lilies,
Cradled in your arms with such great care
That not a single leaf was torn or bruised.

I thought I had grown too old to learn to love,
Too bitter and too angry with myself,
A divorced man haunted by a reckless past
Bereft of kindness, packed with sneers and lies.
But the moment that you stepped across the threshold
To stand beside me, silent, full of grace,
My fiercest memories faded out of time
Like wisps of smoke from off a dying fire,
And the only thing that mattered at that moment
Was your quiet presence, your hand upon my shoulder.

You looked into my eyes and gently smiled.
Your trust filled hopes revoked our pain, our fears.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
April 23rd - 27th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Paris. Holy Week 2019. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Paris. Holy Week 2019. (Revised).: My life was transformed by Paris, The City of Light opened my teenage eyes To a classic grace London could not show me. London became my...

Paris. Holy Week 2019. (Completed Version).

My life was transformed by Paris,
The City of Light opened my teenage eyes
To a classic grace London could not show me.
London became my second best home.

I discovered painting, ballet, music
Where Lautrec drew and Avril danced.
I learned to ditch crass nationalism,
To love philosophy, art, religion
In the wide shadow of Notre-Dame.
I learned to chitchat in two languages,
And how to mix them to make my own.
I learned to be a proud European,
Not just a bullish Englishman.

Last night I watched my world catch fire,
The flames crucified sweet Notre-Dame,
But the walls stayed intact,
The towers did not fall,
The Crown of Thorns did not crumble to ash.
The onlookers sang a sad Ave Maria
That made me pause, I knelt and wept.
These shared tears of grief and fierce despair
Can give us the strength to love and renew.

Notre-Dame will gloriously rise again,
But our tears will forever stain her stones.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 16th. - 17th. 2019.
I was so saddened to see the burning of Notre-Dame that I had to write something urgently, straight onto my Blog page without prior thought or note taking. I have rewritten this poem three times during the day, but now I consider it finished, well, at least it expresses what I was feeling and thinking. As a young boy visiting relatives in Paris, I used to attend services in the Cathedral.

Contrasted Syncopations.

Ballet is the perfect art form.
Poetry is a Cats Cradle of
Tangled threads.

When we spoke sweet nothings
While we snuggled
We were lying.

When we danced together
In the quietness of our bedroom
Our movements told the full story.

Each word
Has too many meanings
To be trusted.
What I thought I meant
Is not what you thought I meant.

The tangled knots of careless words
Are not easily unravelled,

But the lyrical mime of pure movement
Can never be falsified.

Ballet is the perfect art form.
Poetry is a Cats Cradle of
Tangled threads,

Cut them if you dare.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 12th. - 14th. 2019. 

The Villa Sazai. (New Ending). Illustration for the Month of May on my Japanese Calendar.

Why are they looking at the mountain,
These shapely girls who do not show their faces?
Nothing unusual appears to be happening on the distant slopes.

Why are they staring intently across the water
At the rugged cone capped with perfect snow?
The fat man is pointing excitedly towards the peak

Like a sailor spinning yarns of far off lands.
Why do their postures suggest a mood of expectation
More suitable to the dance floor than a stroll on a quiet veranda?

Why are they dressed in blue without exception?
A child is dressed in red, and the seated man in a cloak of vivid green,
But the old woman huddled in the corner is also dressed in blue.

She has trudged for miles, a human beast of burden,
Carrying the pack dropped on the floor behind her.
She has passed this way too many times to count;
This place is where she rests. The view does not concern her.

There is nothing ominous about the choice of colour,
The kimonos match the beauty of the sky,
The pristine sky of a sparkling May morning,

But why are they looking so intently at the mountain? -
There is a legend that in a cave deep in Mount Fuji
Has dwelt for aeons the Bodhisattva Asama,

And no petty mortal is allowed to look on him. -
Perhaps they are dressed in blue to show respect
To a holy power beyond their understanding,

A power that breaks the sword and nurtures peace.
But the faces of these girls are hidden from us,
We can only see their backs and fancy hairdos,

Their eyes will never catch a glance from mine.
And I can never know exactly what they knew.
They remain as secret as the Bodhisattva,

But the face of the old woman tells her whole life story.
She is dressed in blue for a very private reason.
She is dressed in blue because she dare not cry.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
April 6th. 7th. 2019. - Rewritten September 3rd. - 4th. 2019.
Completed January 25th. 2020.

The Hokusai illustration for May on my Japanese Calendar.

View of Mount Fuji Seen from the River Minobu. Month of April.

Trapped on their islands
For the whole of their lives
The merchants trudge the narrow pathway
Beneath the ancient cliff tops
That rear high over their tired heads
Like chiselled gods.

Clouds smoke between rough old mountains
But do not rest their cold weight
Upon the smashed rocks of the pink road
That reaches steeply up towards the skies
From under the shadows of trees.
The trees stand sentinel beside the river.

Searching for grass between the roadside stones
Two horses ignore the tumbling, frothing water,
That rushes closely by their stooping shoulders,
And could easily overpower them in a trice.
A merchant tries to tug the horses forward,
But they are stubborn, lacking food, and need their rest.

Mount Fuji in this picture is an icon,
A serene image of quiet and perfect stillness
Standing aloof above the rush and turmoil
Of the everyday struggle for life.
For a moment the famous view overawes the travellers,
Then they turn their backs and continue on the way.


 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 25th. 2019.
The Hokusai illustration for the month of April from my Japanese Calendar.

The German Girl Met in St. Stephan`s Green.(Revised).

I wish I could photograph my memories
So that I could show to you
The way I loved your face
The moment when we met.

The sun dappled daffodils
Seemed then to laugh and cry
As you skipped among them featly
Chasing your own shadow.

I stood mesmerised and lonely
In the midst of strangers
Who spoke to me of mundane things
I could not understand.

I was blind and deaf to all things
That were not your voice, your face,
And now, three decades later,
I remain a captive to your grace.

Yes, I wish I could photograph my memories
To show you how I always see you,
Not that sad woman you think you find
When you stare into your mirror.

You are still the girl who danced for me
Although you do not think so.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter/
March 30th. - 31st. 2019.The German Girl Met in St. Stephan`s Green.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Mount Fuji seen from Goten-yama to Shinagawa on th...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Mount Fuji seen from Goten-yama to Shinagawa on th...: I do not understand this picture. Have two monks flown in on their crimson carpet Over the pale blue sea and wooden roof tops From dist...

Mount Fuji seen from Goten-yama to Shinagawa on the Road of Tokaido. Month of March. (Revised Version).

I do not understand this picture.
Have two monks flown in on their crimson carpet
Over the pale blue sea and wooden roof tops
From distant snow capped Fuji,
Or are they simply taking their ease on the yellow hump of a hill
And are unaware of their extraordinary surroundings?
And who are these people strolling along the coast road
That leads from Goten - yama to Shinagawa,
Those small stockaded towns sketched with simple brush strokes
Under a misty patina of vernal woodlands?
Are they ordinary country folk trudging to the market,
Or is there some joyous festival in an unseen Shinto temple
Lost among the hills?
The women appear to be dressed in their finest attire
Whatever the burdens they carry on aching shoulders,
But the fat bald man leaning clumsily from his veranda
Seems to have staggered straight out of bed,
And the tall young woman he appears to be addressing
Shows only a polite interest in his words.
I do not think the bald man has much love for heavy work,
Or Zen Buddhists or the ancient Shinto religion,
I suspect that a comfortable life is all he has time for,
That and no trouble from the local Daimyo.

I look a little closer into the picture.

Perhaps the fat man`s house is a sleazy inn,
And the two old monks are not really monks at all,
Just a couple of codgers enjoying the springtime weather
While the young folk wander by on their daily errands.
I think the artist must have been in a holiday mood
When he chose his palate to create this delightful picture,
A picture I could keep displayed on my kitchen door
For a year and a day, not just the month of March.
But it is the pink candyfloss blossoms on tall skeletal trees
That first caught my attention,
Dazzling my tired eyes with a scintillating riot of colour
As I lazily turned the page.
Is such frivolity suitable for the treacherous Month of March?
Well yes, now is the time to dream the death of winter.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 9th. - 18th. - 24th. - 25th.2019.
March 7th. 2020.
The Hokusai illustration for March from my Japanese Calendar.

Shrove Tuesday 2019. (Revised)

Shaking invisible sails across the sky
The storm billows over the rooftops
Drenching the heavens into a uniform spread of grey.
Typical Lenten weather. Few brilliant colours
Spiking through the granite desert hues,
The ashen solemnities of sunless days.
I am not, by nature,  a silent eremite
A vision craving solitary locked into a cave,
But this bleakness makes me want to hide away,
Bury myself in books, CDs and Videos,
Until Easter Day is announced upon the radio
And I can once more sup on cakes and ale.
O England, England, a land of mist and mirrors,
I wish I was on the Rialto among the Carnival crowds.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
March 12th. - 13th. 2019.
Venice has also been my favourite city, but it is now far too expensive to live in.

I Offer A White Rose. (Revised).

I offer a white rose
For the children who have died
By bullets
By knives
By rockets and bombs
By the thoughtless actions
The casual decrees
Of self regarding
Power loving
Petty minded
Semi literate politicians

I offer a white rose
For the children without shelter
Who sleep in subways
In cardboard boxes
On spiked park benches
And are killed by the stupid thoughtless actions
The inhumane decrees
Of self regarding
Power grasping
Petty minded
Pseudo religious politicians

I offer a white rose
For the children who stand firm
And march in battalions
Without knives
Without pistols
Without bombs
Without mortars
Without fear of condemnation
Against the thoughtless inhumane stupid decrees
Of the self serving
Power adoring
Lazy minded
Lying politicians
Who line their stomachs with dainty caviare
And let infants die of want

I offer this single white rose
For all who stand fearless for truth
For innocence
For justice
For knowledge
For wisdom
Against the might of those ignorant self servers
Who think they are powerful
Who think they are just
But have nothing to offer but spite

I offer an unsullied white rose
That bloomed on a crown of thorns

Trevor John Karsavin Potter
March 10th. 2019.
Note. An unsullied White Rose as an emblem of innocence and non violent resistance.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Girl Who Came to Tea, A Childhood Memory of Wa...

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Girl Who Came to Tea, A Childhood Memory of Wa...: My mother and her sister left the room Closing the door behind them, But I was more fortunate, I was allowed to stay there, Cosy and war...

Bad Weather Friends.

I am your threadbare overcoat
That you throw on over your shoulders
To keep yourself warm
On chilled out winter days.

But I also feel the cold
When you hang me up in the wardrobe
And leave me there in the dark,
For week after week after week.

Just like you I need companions,
The chatter of friendly voices,
Even though the Taylor forgot
To sew a tongue into my inside pocket.

So in future, please hang me out in the hallway
So I may see the comings and goings
Of you, your friends and relations,
The cat that creeps in from next door.

This wardrobe is a walnut coffin
That stinks of dried sweat and moth balls,
Old shoes and things I can`t name;
This is no place for a friend to be dumped in.

So please, please, give me a break,
Let me witness the summer sunshine,
Snuggle close to your straw hats and jackets,
Your frivolous holiday wear.

I may not be much use in a heatwave,
And may take up a morsel of space,
But for the sake of our long term friendship,
Brother, please let me out of this place.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 4th. - 5th. 2019.
First seven lines were written on May 3rd. 2013.

Premature Spring. (Revised).

December daffodils?
I wish they would go back to sleep,
We can wait a little longer for the spring.


Just look,
My tulips are much more sensible,
Hiding their cups deep beneath the leaf mould
Ignoring the daffodils mad audacity,
Their adolescent indifference to common sense. -
The tulips are wise,
They have seen the rise and fall of many fortunes.
Thousands of golden sovereigns won, then lost,
In the search for one black flower.
My tulips certainly know their pedigrees,
They askew the wild frivolity of the daffs.


December daffodils?
I wish they would go back to slumber land,
Tuck themselves in
Under their moist black blankets,
Take a nap           for another month or two.
If the snow storms come
They will crumple down in heaps,
Transformed to mush upon the frozen ground.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
December 23rd. 2015. - February 19th. - 23rd. 2019. - March 1st. - 3rd. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: February Trees.(Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: February Trees.(Revised).: Plane trees in the mist. Filigree patterns of axons; Of fine capillaries. Veins reaching up through the winter sky Under the skin of mi...

February Trees.(Revised).

Plane trees in the mist.
Filigree patterns of axons;
Of fine capillaries.
Veins reaching up through the winter sky
Under the skin of mist,
Skin transparent like the skin on my hand,
My pale old hand
Holding this plastic pen while I write,
Note down before the early sun climbs high,
The beauty of this moment.

The words I write down to describe this moment
Spread across the page like knotted veins,
Veins of thought on paper made from wood pulp
Processed from managed forests.
(I myself could not cut down a tree
Unless I planned to replace it with another).

I reach up my hand to touch a leafless branch.
I find a single bud breaking through
The thick rind of the bark.
When summer comes the verdant leaves shall cover
These dark veins spreading up towards the sun.
Up towards the star that gives us life.

I put down my pen.
I study my right hand, my gnarled arthritic fingers.
Study the pale blue veins underneath the skin.
These veins knot and spread just like the tangled branches
Of the old Plane trees in this patch of woodland.

A patch of trees wedged between two roads
Where I can walk, safe from the rush of traffic,
And find some peace of mind beneath these boughs.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 23rd. - 25th. - 26th. 2019.
I started out to write a haiku, but the poem just got longer and longer.

Family Photographs..

These photographs are merely cheap paper icons,
Mementoes to hang up on a wall,  display in a book.
Mementoes that fade in a decade or two,
Even when kept pressed between covers.
These pictures lack the depth of personal memory,
They are surface images
                                That tell only half the story,
Give hints of what seems possibly true.
Yes you may see my collection of family photographs.
But the beauty I knew?  I can only tell you with words.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
February 21st. - 22nd. 2019.

October 19th.2021

Trevor J Potter's Art: Europa.

Trevor J Potter's Art: 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 ho...

Sophie. ( Born a century ago today, May 9th. 1921)

I press the key.
A face I do not recognise lights up the screen.
A girl with candid eyes,
High chubby cheeks,
                                   roughly scissored hair
Scruffed up by a sudden gust of wind.
                                             A southern girl,
Citizen of the ancient town of Ulm;
Her smile so fierce it could defeat all sorrow,
Disarm all foes,
Force her critics to rewrite their verdicts,
Turn SS Guards to Christ.
Sophie Magdalena Scholl, executed 1943
Because she dared to spell out truth to power,
Tell the Nazis that their war was lost;
Tell out loud the crime of Stalingrad;
Tell out loud the gassing of the Jews.
A girl so honest that even Roland Freisler
Felt the ice of truth skewer through his heart
As she stared back at him and did not waver,
His savage deeds mocked by her gentle words.
Perhaps he was the traitor after all,
Perhaps he was the wrecker of the law,
But he was the judge and therefore must condemn her,
Send her to death at twenty one.

I am ashamed to say that until this Sunday morning
I had never heard of Sophie, or her brother,
Their White Rose Movement that dared to out face Hitler
With Christian Love,
                                  With solid Facts and Reason,
With the fearless honesty of thoughtful youth.
"What we wrote and said is also believed by many others,
They just don`t dare express themselves as we did"
She told Judge Freisler as he screamed the spiteful verdict
And sent her swiftly to the guillotine.-
I was born just two months after she was murdered,
And the freedoms that she cherished built my Europe
Out of the graves and ashes of her era;
Out of the ruined cities, the festering wounds of Auschwitz.
She hoped that through her death thousands would be awakened,
Would face down tyranny with words and actions,
Would outlaw fascism for ever more.
But out of their foxholes and bunkers dark gods are re-emerging,
I hope that I dare face them down as powerfully as she did.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 10th. - 11th. 2019.

In memory of Sophie and Hans Scholl, young people who made a massive difference.

A Bitter Isolation.

Brexit has clipped my wings,
I can no longer fly,
Soar over mountains and oceans,
Dance with the stars.

Brexit has dragged me earthwards,
Trapped me on an island,
Dropped me into quicksand
That will slowly suck me under.

I used to be a dreamer,
And some of my dreams came true
When I waltzed to the Berlin Philharmonie,
When I sang in La Fenice.

But now my dreams have been broken,
Torn up and thrown to the wolfhounds
By mobs who spit on reason,
Who love to hate their neighbours.

I love every inch of Europe.
I love every inch of Asia.
My dream was a single community
From Galway to Vladivostok.

But now, like ancient Prometheus,
I have been deprived of all the freedoms;
The freedom to soar like a lark,
The freedom to know my own mind.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 9th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Night Train. (Revised Version). (2) History Le...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Night Train. (Revised Version). (2) History Le...:                     1 .            Night Train. Outside the carriage window The night has become spectral, A ghost factory of forensi...

(1) Sharp Winter Light.(2) Meaux.

              1.

Sharp Winter Light.

A delicate, ethereal, early morning,
Bright sunlight reflected through still water,
Through thin ice.
Nothing substantial,
Rock solid, immutable.
Nothing how we believe it should be.

The morning air seems to glisten with crystals,
Ice crystals in the atmosphere,
Invisible to us
But leaving clear traces.
The sky a mirror reflecting blue oceans,
A mirror dazzling deep in God`s eye.

I open the front door and enter the house,
I step out of the sunlight into the shadows,
Into the private space I created.
Out of the World view,
The world and his wife.
I retreat from the jarring confusions of street life
Where peace of mind is a no go area
And I am just a face in the crowd.

But today the street scene outside my front window
Seems to be new made, transfigured, exalted.
I stand at the window, stunned by the beauty
Revealed in a place I thought brash and mundane.

A delicate, ethereal, winter morning,
Everyone that I meet wears a broad smile.
When I enter the house I am a sleepwalker,
Someone cut off from friends and relations.
Someone cut off from the bustle of life.
But today I stepped out into the sunlight
And saw the world as it truly is,
Exquisite and sacred,
Fragile and dazzling,
Paradise in my very own street.

At that moment my heart began to thrum fiercely
As though I had joined an ecstatic dance.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 30th. 2019.


              2.

        Meaux.

Dear Mrs. May
I want to live in Meaux,
My lovely Meaux.
Why do you stand in the way?
Why do you stand in the way?


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 4th. 2019.