My Home Is Europe. (ReWritten Poem)

Once upon a time I had a dream. 

I dreamed Europe was a single country, 

No borders to cross, 

No passports needed, 

Every European an equal citizen,

Whatever their ethnicity or religion.

Now my little England has smashed this dream,

Broken it to bits as if it had no worth,

Trashed family ties, embraced exceptionalism,

The vain belief that this small island nation 

Is extra smart and can out class the rest.

A racist scam that rips my guts with shame. 

Last night I chucked my Passport in the bin 

Because I felt just like a stateless child,

A refugee washed up on Dover Beach 

Confronted by a mob of hostile faces,

A barbed wire fence,

Huge guard dogs straining at their leashes.

Their handlers screamed out incoherent orders,

Torches flashing; handcuffs clipped to belts.

In spite of this I have not ditched my dream.

I must be patient, yet ready to speak true.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

December 30th. 2020. - January 1st. 2021

This complete Re-Write, October 6th. - 7th. 2021.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Impressions on a Winters Night.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Impressions on a Winters Night.: Sat and watched The Silence As though it were truly silent; Not a word heard, Lips moving on a ventriloquist`s face, Masks etched deep...

Sleeping Beauty in Barnet. - A Story for Twelfth Night. (Newly Completed, Twelfth Night 2022.).

The Edwardian villa across from my semi

Slowly decays behind a hedge of thorns.

Perhaps a sad princess has pricked her finger

And awaits Prince Mojo  - armed with a 

                                                  rock star kiss -

To wake her from long years of solitude.

Or perhaps the house high hedge is make-believe,

A taffeta curtain - a trick of the evening light,

Protecting secret rooms from prying eyes,

From infection and the local thought police.

A smashed computer, a toilet, a broken spindle

Lie on the pavement outside the silent house.

When a light is on in a room assumed to be empty

An intricate web of folk tales wakes up phones

Vibrating on armchairs - in bags - in jacket pockets -

On the tumbled sheets of many a post party bed.

When the light goes out the web shivers and snaps,

Littering gossip columns with spectral spiders.

"These are weird times", my neighbour wryly remarks,

Her old face wizened behind a surgical mask.

Muttering words deep into her fur trimmed sleeve

Cinders in blue jeans pushing an empty pram

Occasionally enters the house behind the hedge,

Locking the door behind her with a slam.

Perhaps she serves the sleeping Princess Aurora.

She also awaits Prince Mojo - his rock star kiss -

His six foot broad sword - his electricians manual -

His tracts on plumbing - woodwork - natal care -

Prized gifts to turn on every light in the house -

          to sweep the dust out of the nursery window. -

Like Snow White at the wishing well, Cinders believes in 

                                                                 handsome heroes,

Prince Mojo  - on his Yamaha - changing thorns to flowers.

When he comes the hedge will shrink down to his height,

And a midwife will lodge for years upon the sofa. -

No more impounded by cops - sawn up and burned -

Spinning Wheels will recommence spinning, just by 

                                                                    themselves.

Dogs will cease their barking at priests and postmen.

Cats will stare yearning into the face of the moon.

Then I may sleep soundly, calm and snug in my bed,

That Edwardian villa no longer spooking my dreams.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 26th. - 27th. - 28th. 2020. - January 1st. - July 8th. 2021.

Completed January 5th. 2022, Twelfth Night.

In one version of Sleeping Beauty the Princess Aurora has several babies.

Two Poems. (1) Light and Shadow. (2) The Gift.

A vision of chiaroscuro

The lilt of your voice down the telephone

Describing a June sunrise

I listen to your words and imagine

Spring sunlight filtered by new leaves

Flickering through your hair

You wanted to make love by the lakeside

But too many strangers were passing

And we were too much in the light

Now the phone is our only direct link

- Apart - that is - from telepathy -

To keep us in touch through the winter

- You seem so distant - yet with me -

Words fade more quickly than visuals

From my incomplete backlog of memory

Just a few pert comments remain

Photographs have been claimed to be factual

But they are merely flat shapes on a surface

They are static - a likeness is just an illusion

Photographs are the language of stillness

They can never convey your vitality

Nor your living presence beside me

Emerging from sleep in the dawn

A vision of chiaroscuro

The lilt of your voice down the telephone

Describing a June sunrise

Trevor John Karsavin Potter

December 13th. - 14th. - 16th. 2020.

This poem can be read as a Round,

                           *

                    The Gift.

The piece of clear rock crystal that I gave you

With your Christmas Card and the letter sealed

                                       and marked as Private

Is a token of fidelity -

Something for you alone

Keep it safe

Nothing else that I have had the chance to give 

                                                                     you 

Has such an ancient history 

Or a future half as long -

This crystal will survive all we can know

It holds no secrets - it shows the facts like any 

                                                  bedside mirror -

It has no magic - only fools think that -

But the truth it shows is deep within us both -

It is the clarity that love gives to our living

When we stand face to face - honest and without 

                                                                        fear.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 21st. 2020.                           

Alternative Realities. (New Longer Version)

Help

I am a hostage on an island

A Looking Glass island

But someone has covered the mirror

And locked up all the chess pieces

And sunk all the little ships

Help

I am a hostage in a dream world

A world dreamt up by fools who never wake

Fools who hold two Kings and all four Aces

In the Hand of Poker they are always playing

Their dream is not my dream but I am in it

Help

I am a hostage lacking hope

I need a White Knight with a rope and ladder

I want to climb back through the Looking Glass

And touch down in the old world that I knew

Once upon a time

Meanwhile

Every clock here disagrees

About the month the week the day the hour

And every time I try to reach the house

I find the path returns me to the garden

Where all the flowers chit-chat, and few make any

                                                                        sense 

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 12th. - 13th. - 2020.

With thanks and apologies to Lewis Carrol. 

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

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Discarded Photograph.(Revised).: When, by chance, I picked up the photograph, I thought I had picked up a portrait of you Laughing by the seaside, but private, as you       ...

December 1st. Midnight Poem. (Complete).

The year is old - very old,

December - month of the zimmer

                                            frame -

The white stick -

                           the broken shoe -

Earth piled brusquely on a 

                                paupers grave -

The slow depletion of memory.

Snow soft falling - grey - not white.

Snow soft drifting through a broken 

                                            window.

Snow freezing the eyes, the ears,

                                   the tongue -

Snow in the mouths of hungry canines

Snuffling for bones in frosty gutters -

Snow in the cap of the squatting 

                                             beggar.

Snow - slush ochre - in a vandalized

                                                pram.

On the loose in cities -  through deep 

                                concrete canyons -

Dogs scavenge in packs -  restless -

                                          snow blind,

Tundra bred thugs - safe in a gang -

                             piratical in a crowd.

They scatter in terror if a car 

                                             back fires 

Or a child aims a snowball -

Long ears flapping loose - like galleon 

                                                       sails.

I sit in my back room writing this poem

Lost in my dreams while the old year 

                                                         fails.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 1st. - 10th. - 11th. 2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Harvest, Thanksgiving and Christmas. (Rewritten).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Harvest, Thanksgiving and Christmas. (Rewritten).:  I watched enchanted the pardoning of the turkey, A strange Thanksgiving custom that seems to                                               ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Seventeen 2020.(Rewritten).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Seventeen 2020.(Rewritten).: I notice you are now in high heels. Tall as a flamingo. Frightening the boys. When I was young I dressed in Winkle Pickers, Your tongue ...

A Bright May Morning - Woken by Your Call.

Increasing my sense of isolation

Your voice echoes down the telephone -

A lone flute heard in the distance

Or a far off lark calling for a mate -

Haunting the morning quiet as I struggle

                                                from sleep

Chilled to the bone by your absence.

You told me you loved me when, out of

                            the blue, you called me, 

Words clearing the shadows that webbed

                                               the skylight

Letting the sun break through.

But now truth is spoken the waiting seems

                                                        crueller

                                than it was at Tenebrae,

This house emptied of memory and

                                             lacking its soul.

Good Friday was all things but good, the

                                           loneliness visceral.

I sat at the window and tried to count seagulls

Ripping through plastic bags in the street.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

Poem started May 29th. - June 10th. 2018.

Poem completed November - 29th. - 30th. - December 2nd. - 3rd. 2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Advent Memories. (New Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Advent Memories. (New Poem).: Slowly degrading memories. A signature on a testament. A photograph, paper thin and fading, Just like the pages of a discarded book, A ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Neighbours.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Neighbours.: Love thy neighbour as thyself.  Who is my Neighbour? My neighbour is the fox prowling through the streets. My neighbour is the badger bu...

Not Being Allowed.(Revised).

Not being allowed to touch you

Is not being allowed to live.

Not being allowed to kiss you

Is not being allowed to love.

Like a rabbit in a steel trap

Waiting for the blow to fall,

Not being allowed your kindness

Is not knowing kindness at all.

Last night I dreamed I held you

In the gentle dark of our bed,

But when I awoke this morning

My fists were punching the wall.

Not being allowed you near me

Is pure violence against who we are.

You are my voice, my true word,

Without you the silence is All.

I sit alone in my locked cell

Not able to take nor to give,

Not being allowed to hug you

Is not being allowed to live.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 27th. 2020. - December 1st. 2020.                                                       

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Beauty of November Rain.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Beauty of November Rain.: I am glad rain is falling this November noon. This is the time of year for the beauty of rain To become apparent, soaking the fallen leaves,...

Harvest, Thanksgiving and Christmas. (Rewritten).

 I watched enchanted the pardoning of the turkey,

A strange Thanksgiving custom that seems to

                                                   make no sense,

The turkey, after all, is the victim not the killer,

The Chef Rotisseur the one who bastes and

                                                                 carves.

I was skiving in the salad section when a teenage

                                                                 commis

But nowadays I only cook for friends and family,

Roast Turkey an absentee from our festive table,

The meat too dry - too bland - and always somewhat 

                                                                   stringy.

We usually feast on Goose - or Duck a l` orange.

But this year there will be no guests on Christmas day,

Sometimes the phones will ring - emails blip # Merry,-

But online voices are never as sweet as hugs. So maybe

I will improvise a one man party, or stroll in shades & 

                                         mask on Hampstead Heath -

Incognito among lonely strangers - watching the last

                                                                    leaves fall.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 25th. - 28th. 2020. - December 6th. 2020.

This is Poem number nine of my set of 14 line poems about my reactions to living through lockdown November 2020. This, as things stand, is the penultimate poem in the sequence, The Beauty of November Rain being the last.

Hollow Heart of Time.(Revised).

Swallows in November? Some stay a full month more

But have to glide late autumn winds to Africa

Before the winter solstice lights the inner chambers

Of Neolithic tombs. This is the hollow heart of

                                                               measured time,

The dark womb of the year - coiled and fallow -

Next years seed potatoes secured in sacks and boxes -

Scavenger foxes criss - crossing railway tracks.

I sit and type this poem, half aware of evening birdsong,

Shrill bells from apple trees across the road.    Discrete

Suburban gardens growing wild for several decades.

Developers planning houses where wrens and sparrows

                                                                                   nest.

One whole year in isolation has taught me how to listen,

Learn the sounds of changing seasons, note anomalies I 

                                                                               missed 

When I biked to work all weathers, down streets of glass

                                                                             and steel.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 23rd. 2020. - December 1st. - 2nd. - 7th.2020.

January 29th. 2021.

Poem number Eight in my sequence of November poems. This poem pairs with number Seven.

Swallows in November.(Rewritten).

Swallows in November? Even the flocks are fooled

By unexpected sunshine, winds strangely soft and

                                                                           mild,

Leaves late in falling, red roses fat as apples,

Grape Hyacinth already flourishing, tangled shoots

                                                        an opulent green:

Above this Spring like scene the swallows soaring.

Words that are strong and true are hard to find. I pack this 

Half made poem into my jacket pocket. Maybe thoughts

                                                                      will coalesce 

Into coherent images on my Sunday walk. The pavements 

                                                                    shimmer white,

Reflecting surreal brightness. The scales of nature tipped

Way out of balance             reveal a toxic paradise of heat.

Instead of flying south, swallows over winter in Somerset 

                                                                              and Kent.

The walk has cleared my mind, I can now complete this

                                                                                 poem

In the privacy of my kitchen, the mobile phone turned off,

But a sound of evening birdsong makes me pause before

                                                                                I write.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

November 22nd. 2020. - December 1st. - 7th. 2020.

This is poem Number 7 in my November 2020 sequence of free style sonnets.

Pink Umbrellas in November. (Rewritten).

Mums carrying pink umbrellas in the rain,

Maytime umbrellas in squalid mid November

When all is grey and dark and dripping wet,

Mist liquid grey dissolving sunset red.

Snow is promised early in December, yet

These pink umbrellas make me mourn for Easter;-

Plum blossom blown to shreds; church bells

                                           shaking windows.

Children - less aware of changing seasons

Than we, fat bellied, aching, hostile adults,

Lugging bags of shopping up the hill -

Skip and scream beneath the pink umbrellas

As if they pranced through ornamental fountains

One final time before the new term starts:

One final time before the swallows exit.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

November 20th. 2020. - Rewritten January 28th. 2021.

Poem number six in my sequence of November poems.

Memories by Lamplight, Grey mid November. (Rewritten).

Turning lights on mid afternoon - my thoughts

                                                             return to

Anne, (1928 - 1974), teacher, friend and listener,

Who sat at table with me, got me to write a poem,

Watching the words meander across the page

Like a desert river slowly evaporating.

This was in Boston - nineteen sixty something -

Myself, barely out of my teens, flown over for

                                                 a long weekend -

Some singular saint having paid the airline fare.

That was a weekend rich in love and laughter, but

This autumn 2020 - deep in November lock down -

The weather poised on a knife edge, winter ghosting 

                                                                 into view, 

I must come to terms with living solo - as I do, Anne 

                                             just a voice on my PC -

Sometimes merely a whisper, sometimes clear and true.

Such memories have become familiar friends, reminding

               me who I have been, and who I can be, if I dare.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 17th. - 18th. 2020. - December 2nd. 2020.

Revised January 29th. 2021.

 Poem number Five in my November 2020 series.

Lonesome in November. (Revised).

 Lock down has made me aware of local things.

The migration of birds above my garden.

Urban foxes scavenging for scraps.

Every flower in my garden becomes a friend,

A short lived friend perhaps, but one to photograph

                                                       and cherish.

These flowers must take the place of distant folk

Locked down in other parts of this grim country,

Unable to make a break, take the wheel and travel,

Unable to ride the bus or express train.

And I have not met my love, or other members of

                                                         my family

Since early March, and now the leaves are down,

The birds have flown, hitch hiking thermals to Africa,

                                   their freedom exemplary.

At night I live in dreams and hug the autumn air,

Missing smiles and kisses, a heart beating close to

                                                                  mine.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 17th. 2020.

Poem number Four in my November 2020 sequence.

 

The Beauty of November Rain. (Completed)

I am glad rain is falling this November lunchtime.

This is the time of year for the beauty of rain

To become apparent, soaking the fallen leaves -

Melding reds and golds into dun coloured mush -

Transforming the mush into clods of black earth.

I wheel the emptied bin from off the pavement -

Last night it was filled with rose cuttings, with 

                                                                  moss,

With various weeds - all taken to make good compost

For other gardeners to use. - I check the back yard gate -

My next door neighbour has left it swinging open, so I 

                                                                                 tie it

Shut with the cord that does for a bolt.- Late autumn - 

My life snuggles down into a sleepless hibernation. This

                                              is the right time for reading,

For reconnecting with friends by video link, by email or

                                                       the landline telephone.

Meanwhile, from the porch, I watch cold steady rain

                                     soften the dry clay soil for Spring.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 14th. - 16th. - 17th. - 20th. - 26th. 2020.

Completed January 30th. 2021.

Poem Ten in my sequence of fourteen line poems about November 2020 in my local neighbourhood. This poem is the last in the sequence.

Simple Gifts.

Twilight lasts an hour in mid November,

Too dark to read - too light to use a lamp -

The windows burnished bronze turning gold.

School kids love this time of year - it seems,

Kicking up clouds of leaves with dancing feet -

Gold dust smeared with mud on rubber boots.

Not many people are wearing masks today.

We are all so happy we want to show our faces

To smiling strangers - to neighbours we rarely

                                                               talk to -

The weather so mild we do not need our coats.

Perhaps it is the soft breeze - perhaps the vote

                                      in distant Philadelphia

That has filled this London street with happy faces -

Or perhaps it simply is the pastel twilight

Revealing the secret beauty of a place I thought

                                                                I knew.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 10th. 2020.

This is the third in a group of fourteen line poems about my responses to November 2020 in my local area.

Sounds of Summer.

Sounds of summer on the radio.

A lark ascends on violin wings

Above imagined tree tops,

The wind - a hum of violas.

Summer is a long time gone now,

The red leaves fallen to heaps of damp fire

Left smouldering on street corners.

Dogs sniff the wind blown debris - then move on.

I try to remember the faces of long gone friends.

The smoke from dying embers is clearer to me now

Than eyes once full of passion,

Smiles innocent and new.

One day in the park, however, retains true clarity -

Anne chatting and laughing - a lark almost out of view.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 8th. 2020.

Poem Two in sequence.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Listening to You Read. (Newly Completed poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Listening to You Read. (Newly Completed poem).:                Listening to You Read (In Memoriam Anne Sexton and John Lennon). Listening to you read I become American, A citizen of ...

A Passing Moment in November.

The sound of distant traffic - muffled by houses.

Two people walking in the street - masked -

                                    distanced by silence.

A single wren chirping in a wet - bare tree.

I stand in the open doorway - barefoot - watching

                                        the world pass by.

This spring I let the weeds grow high in my

                                                front garden -

I let them grow for the arachnids - the bees - the

                                    occasional butterfly.

People passing to and fro thought I had got old

                                              and negligent -

They threw their rubbish over my garden wall.

The weeds shrink back to earth as winter nears.

My neighbours will soon think my garden tidy.

I stand in the doorway - wondering what to do next.

This cold November I am learning how to be lonely.

I retire to the kitchen to light a stick of incense.

The fragrant smoke reminds me of long lost friends.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 5th. 2020.

 Poem One in sequence.

Our Apple Tree has been Replaced by Concrete.. (Renewal NW2).

They are building tower blocks

where we used to plant

vegetables for the family table.

Dragonflies vacate the tiny stream.

I have in mind to learn the Frisian language.

Family roots dig deeper than we realise,

they tap into the source of hidden memory

beneath the skin of who we think we are.

Concrete tower blocks, caves in space

where modern Hunter - Gatherers hunker down

after forays into asphalt jungles,

are merely metaphors for transience.

The bones of villages, of towns and cities,

rot beneath green fields in many places.

Farmers gathering rice - wheat - or barley,

chat in dialects of ancient lineage.

I have in mind to learn the Frisian language,

to staunch the wound between my past - my present. -

Today I watch developers trash the marshes

where we grew our spuds - our beans - our roses.

When a child I was not taught the names of flowers,

I told myself the dragonflies are birds.

If I can learn the words my forbears spoke

I may then touch the truth of who I am.

Our apple tree has been replaced by concrete.

Dragonflies vacate the tiny stream.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

18th. - 27th. - 28th. October 2020.  

Late October Wistfulness.

The paving stones are ochre and red.

The swaying trees are dripping tears

Through a floating skein of mist

That swabs my eyes with webs and phantoms.

In my mind I am still cocooned in summer

Awaiting the rustle of new spread wings

To lift me out of this season of torpor

Into a forest of tropical colour.

Tonight the time turns backwards, not forwards;

The shadows lengthen at 5 o`clock,

They are sick with dreams, a smokescreen of fables

That blot out reason with terrors and rumours.

Trees shed their leaves because daylight is fading,

They are not concerned with the bonfires we light.

Crumbs that I threw on the footpath this morning

Have all been eaten by the passing birds.

I lost my way when childhood departed,

The dead leaves falling thick and fast.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

24th. October 2020. - February 23rd 2022.

Words are worth a whole world more than money. (Revised)

This book cost me only 80 pence.

It cost Li Po a whole wild life to

                                            write,

Cheap wine staining every folded

                                             page,

The glimmer of moonlight also hinted

                                                  at.

It seems the rarest art, the finest poems

Are seldom worth the price of ink and

                                            paper,

Unless a tycoon buys the manuscripts

And locks them deep inside a concrete

                                             vault.

The fact the poet died while reaching for

                                      the moon,

Or heaving up inside a New York Bar,

Seems to magnify the monetary value

Of words rich in love - in hope - in

                                             grief.

It is the joy of ownership that makes the

                                   tycoon tick,

Not the beauty of the poems, the fine calligraphy,

         the deft strokes of the brush.

Li Po drowned a thousand years before I bought 

                                       this book.

Drunk - he tried to hug the moon reflected in the

                                        Yangtze.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

October 20th. - 21st. 2020.

Renewal NW2.

They are building tower blocks

where we used to plant

vegetables for the family table. -

Dragonflies vacate the tiny stream.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

October 18th. 2020. 

Big is not beautiful. The smallest things are the most precious.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Dream Laden Spring. (Completed).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Dream Laden Spring. (Completed).: The morning after we celebrated your birthday the wind turned mild; pale daffodils rocked like dreaming children beside the quiet river;...

Fragile Portrait.

 My life pictured in a stained glass window

All the pieces in the wrong places

But still making sense.

I live a thousand lives in just one day -

Yesterday - tomorrow - all at once

In just one place - in one small drop of time -

A raindrop made up of a thousand rainbows -

A raindrop about to hit a pond

And merge into the slow flow of the water -

The pond reflects my face until a leaf falls -

My face shattered into a thousand fragments

Rippled on the dazzle of the surface.

Ripples of stained glass - bright pieces of a puzzle

Scattered out of sequence - but somehow making sense.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

October 8th. 2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Listening to You Read. (New Ending to the poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Listening to You Read. (New Ending to the poem).:                Listening to You Read (In Memoriam Anne Sexton and John Lennon). Listening to you read I become American, A citizen of ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Listening to Scriabin.(New Version) (2) The Wr...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Listening to Scriabin.(New Version) (2) The Wr...: Listening to Scriabin. (New Version). Burdened with sound The air becomes dark, like the depths of the ocean; Slow waves moving overhea...

Trevor J Potter's Art: A Note for my Diary. (Completed Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: A Note for my Diary. (Completed Poem).: A book of Chinese poems on my lap I sit in the church waiting for the clock to strike; Reciting is not easy as it could be With a mask t...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Satori in the Time of Covid. (Revised)

Trevor J Potter's Art: Satori in the Time of Covid. (Revised):  A sudden moment of inexplicable joy, The sky white with light on a cold dull day. Sad Rooks, vagabonds hunched in skeletal                 ...

Two Poems. (1) Missing Ivy.(2) Pathetique Sonata.(Revised).

          Missing Ivy.

Walking alone in the mountains

I think of you - so far away

Watching the cars go by.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

October 6th. 2020.

               2.

Pathetique Sonata.

Like Chinese poetry

This music confines sorrow

To a few black lines

Lines drawn on fine paper

By a wavering hand 

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

October 8th. 2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: A Miracle of Rainbows. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: A Miracle of Rainbows. (Revised).: A Miracle of Rainbows, Part 2 of Rainbows and a Nightingale. That day I thought the sky was full of angels, Two double rainbows high abo...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Rainbows and a Nightingale. (New Ending).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Rainbows and a Nightingale. (New Ending).:       Rainbows and a Nightingale. (Summer 1967 Recalled). Although it is just passed midsummer, Wednesday the 1st. of July 2020, The ev...

Soft October Rain.

 The rain dances on my skin.

Lute strings imitate drum riffs

Tapped out on pavement and Birch trees.

Lute strings dissolving in tears

When they touch the earth.

The world is an intimate orchestra

To which we all belong,

To which we all add momentary key

                                             changes.

Lute strings - cool and delicate - dance

                                 against my skin,

Muted strings tap tapping out soft rhythms

Before the sun strikes through

                         the timpani of clouds.

There is a gentle solace in the fall of rain,

In the soft coolness of moisture on skin.

When the sun strikes through

                        harmony breaks apart.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

October 2nd. - 3rd. 2020.

(1) A Moment of Understanding. (2) Hydrangea.

A Moment of Understanding.

 The Buddha Nature within me

and

The Christ nature within me

Are the Holy Spirit

Are One and the Same.

Together they teach me Compassion.

Together they lead to Nirvana.

This has been so since my birth.

This has been so since before then.

Buddha within me -

Buddha before me -

Buddha beneath me -

Buddha above me.

Saint Patrick on the wind swept mountain

Saw what Bodhidharma knew.

Christ within me -

Christ before me -

Christ beneath me -

Christ above me.

Only the words are distinct - are different.

Only the words are a problem.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

29th. September 2020.

         Hydrangea.

These flowers are no longer soft,

They have the texture of brown paper,

As rough to the skin as late October winds.

 Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

29th. September 2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Listening to Scriabin.(Completed Poem) (2) The...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Listening to Scriabin.(Completed Poem) (2) The...: Listening to Scriabin. (Completed Poem). Burdened with sound The air becomes dark, like the depths of the ocean; Slow waves moving over...

The Discarded Photograph.(Completed Poem).

When, by chance, I picked up the photograph,

I thought I had picked up a portrait of you

Laughing by the seaside, but private, as you

                                                        always are,

Flowers in your hair band, a Russian novel 

                                     balanced on one knee. 

The tent was quite familiar - quite your style -  

An old Welsh blanket hoisted on four sticks -

Hoisted loosely between the breast shaped

                                                     sand dunes

To make a snug, a private little squat

To be secreted in.

I really thought this portrait was of you,

The ink black birthmark printed on the cheekbone; 

Fine blue eyes under lacquered lashes;

Gilded hair cascading over shoulders;

A platinum wedding ring.

Every detail brought you clearly to my mind,

The scent of you, the touch of you; your young

                                                 half naked body

Curled up on the settee next to mine.

But then I noticed the photo had been tinted,

The dye applied with great care by an artist

Expert in the craft;

An artist who plied this craft from time to 

                                                               time

To put a few half crowns in empty jam jars. -

I slide the picture back where I had found it,

Lodged between two novels,

Two pre-war novels, left out, I hope by chance,

Among discarded beer cans and pizza packs,

Left out to rot upon the churchyard wall. -

You say I was meant to find this pile of books,

But I dispute this; I had not passed the church 

                                              for several weeks,

And I rarely stop to pick through unloved things,

Not even hardback books once sold in Woolworth

To young ladies of my mother`s generation.

But I am glad I found this photo, although I dare

                                                             not keep it;

I do not own her past, so I must let her go.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

July 23rd. - 26th. - September 24th. 2020.

December 12th. 2020. - October 9th. 2022.

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Washed Out by Rain. (Revised & Completed) (2) ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Washed Out by Rain. (Revised & Completed) (2) ...:                         1 .    Washed Out by Rain. The world is silver grey. Wall paper world. The rain falling steadily, Washing ou...

Satori in the Time of Covid. (Revised)

 A sudden moment of inexplicable joy,

The sky white with light on a cold dull day.

Sad Rooks, vagabonds hunched in skeletal

                                                     trees,

Fretfully cawing:

Shoppers hooded, leaning forward into the

                                                     wind

Unaware of the strange beauty of the sky.

The sudden white light illuminating clouds

Fat with ice crystals.

Ice is grey and black when trapped in clouds.

Sackcloth clouds have dragged in a phoney

                                                  winter,

Three long weeks before the autumn equinox

Roughs up city squares, brown fields and red

                                        brick houses

With a thief`s impunity.

The thief that sneaked in through the hall and

                                                 kitchen

then cleared off fast with my phone and

                                                camera

comes painfully to mind.

My next door neighbour had left the back gate

                                                    open.

My next door neighbour has plenty to answer for.

So how come this short lived moment of real joy?

This shattering joy, inexplicable and astonishing!

The clouds aglow as though lit up by fireflies.

The garden incandescent with red roses.

The morning air quite still, dream heavy, free

                                   of diesel fumes.

Time weighed down with silence - my heart beats

                                     loud and clear.

How come this interaction with Satori?

How come such peace in this year of

                                                   Covid?

When I think things through I cannot find an answer,

I`ll just hunker down and get on with my day.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

September 7th. - 16th. - October 11th. 2020.

A Note for my Diary. (Newly Revised).

A book of Chinese poems on my lap
I sit in the church waiting for the clock to strike.

Today is a day for reading.
Yesterday, a day for skyping
Gave me no space to sit alone and think,
To take off my mask in a quiet and lonely corner.

I wasted many hours on the telephone
Failing to organize an on-line meeting,
But I did find time to write a ten line poem,
Which is something - I suppose.

Now I sit alone in this cold suburban church,

A book of Chinese poems on my lap.

I will have to leave when the clock strikes 2 - I`m told -

Time for prayer is strictly regulated.

I am not at prayer now - just simply being alone.

I pretend the clock aint getting on my nerves.

When the doors are locked I shall stroll into the park

And yell Tu Fu at the sulky Autumn skies.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 15th. - 16th. 2020. - October 11th. 2020.

December 5th. 2020. - October 9th. 2022.

(1) Listening to Scriabin.(New Version) (2) The Wrecker.

Listening to Scriabin. (New Version).


Burdened with sound
The air becomes dark, like the depths of the ocean;
Slow waves moving overhead
Interrogate the sun.

The audience sways gently to the swell and fall
Of the Poem of Ecstasy;
A tight packed shoal tugged and rocked by currents
Stronger than instinct.

This, perhaps is what the Dervish looks for
When he spins and whirls in meditation,
Not transcendence, but quietly physical,
This, perhaps, is the death of reason.

Some think it is better not to be born at all,

Not to be separated from the stillness

That hermits seek among the icy mountains:
Some think it is better not to know such music.

Burdened with sound

The air becomes dark, like the depths of the ocean;

The audience sways gently to the swell and fall 

Of the Poem of Ecstasy.


 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 29th. - 31st. 2020. - September 29th. 2020.
October 12th. 2020.

Developed from a poem sketched 20th. April 2015.

                       *      

             The Wrecker. 


Last night I tossed a stone high in the air,
It has not hit the pond yet,
The surface calm, unruffled,
The moon a perfect picture.

Perhaps if I had skimmed the stone across the stillness,
The ripples would be spreading
Hour upon hour upon hour,
Tearing the picture apart.

If the pond were a crystal plate I would have to smash it,

Smash it to glittering shards,

Moonlight on tremulous water. -

Perfection, for some reason, breaks my heart.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 14th. - 15th. 2020.

September 11th. 2020.

Falling in The Fall
Leaf
        upon leaf
        upon leaf -
The lives of all I have
                          loved
Becoming yesterday -
Becoming next years
                 leaf mould -
Rain scented
          Springtime
                 leaf mould -
Earth from which April
                        Tulips
Shall lift their emptied
                           cups.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
 September 11th. - 12th. 2020.      

Dry Web.

I opened the door of the outside toilet
And was flicked in the face by a spiders web.

Perhaps I am the dream food for arachnids,
Dinner - tea - supper for a hundred years;

No more of hunting for migrant insects,
No more of spinning silk through space.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 6th. 2020.

Dharma Naturalist. (Revised)

Reading Gary Snyder -
Or Gary Snyder reading me -
The simplicity of his poem
Daring me to look
At Quail - at Duck - at basalt cliff face
With an innocent eye,
The eye of a one year infant,
Or the eye of a hare in the wheatfield
Peering acutely
Intently
Ecstatic
But not dreaming - nor guessing - nor
                                                thinking
But as though she were simply a camera
                           Focused on all things,
On the landscape as it happens to be.


If I were a true Zen poet,
As Gary Snyder is a true Zen poet,
The snap of a twig underfoot
Would be heard as the young hare hears it
In the yellow depths of the wheat field -
Hot August - cloud dappled - midday.
But I am not a true Zen poet,
And must study every sight I encounter,
Check facts - take notes - then file them
                                       discreetly away.


Meanwhile - out of sight - not hiding, 

The young hare - attentive - observing,
Watching the world she inherits 

Cool - fleet footed - alert.

Watching the fields and the hill sides 

She is absolutely akin to,

Sister to wind and to rain.
Observing the world night and morning

With the curiosity of a naturalist,

But with no reason to allocate names.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
September 3rd. 2020.

Hares hop - jump great distances - run fluently at great speed.I have tried to incorporate the movements of the Hare in the structure of the poem. 

Mill Hill Ridgeway. (Newly Completed Poem).

(The greenest of suburbs are haunted by ghosts)


I love to walk in these fields at midnight,
Feel the earth breathing beneath my feet,
A stressed out mother deep in slumber.

I love to sit still on the south facing slope,
Watch galaxies pulse through magical skies,
A trillion heart beats in the tumult of space.

I love especially the warm June nights
When I can hear wandering foxes cry
Over distances only the fiercest would travel.

This is my dream time, private and holy,
When I can look further than daylight allows,
I sense the depths lost far beneath silence
Where linger the echoes of ancestral voices,

Labourers who gleaned where middle class houses
Now litter lost fields once yellow with corn,
Close by Wilberforce built a plain brick chapel,
A Low Church Parish for hard up farmers.

I love to walk on these hills at midnight
And dream of my forebears struggling for bread.
The slopes overlook where the old farm nestled
Among English elms more graceful than spires.

But the trees are all gone, and the smug little houses
Now huddle together, row upon row
In the valley where horses once whinnied their praise.

Oh I wish I could bulldoze those snide little semis
And restore the valley to tractor and plough.

Meanwhile I walk the last of the green hills,

Down tracks where shadows seem to whisper my name. 

 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 5th. - 6th. 2018. - September 1st. - 2nd.  -  5th.- 6th. 2020.
Completed October 16th. - 25th.2022.

Listening to You Read. (Revised).

               Listening to You Read

(In Memoriam Anne Sexton and John Lennon).


Listening to you read I become American,
A citizen of that eastern seaboard world
I dearly wanted to move to,
               Wanted to be native of when young;
A citizen who was born and bred mid way
On a ship                         or a slow Dakota.

A citizen                    but never quite at home.

                                          That was before
Three bullets had hit their mark,
Filleting,
                Shredding John`s back
As though it were a curtain of rice paper,
A curtain so thin it was instantly torn apart.

His still beating heart attached to nothing
                                                   sustainable,
Danced out of time in the surgeon`s
                                            delicate fingers
As he tried to fix it to the torn aorta. -
The heart skipped and danced like a small
                             child playing hop scotch,
Skipping from square to square,
                           From moment to moment
Until the world veered crazily out of orbit
And all the numbered squares blurred into one.

From that day on I feigned to hate America,
To hate myself for having loved too well
The Manhattan neighbourhood where Lennon died.
I turned my back on all I had once been,
Erased all dreams of southern California,
Redacted memories of New York City,
And told my friends I had never seen the place.
But then tonight I heard your smoke cracked voice
On a scratchy tape you made in nineteen seventy:
    -  Your poems keen as scalpels  - blunt as bullets.

Anne, listening to you read
          I recovered something I did not want to know,
That I am not a foreigner where the pilgrims landed,
That I was taught to think and write by East Coast poets,
Yourself, young Sylvia Plath, and Robert Lowell.
I have always thought myself an American poet
But a misplaced love of England kept me here in London,

A vibrant town perhaps, but never snug and homely. -

I have often strolled by the Thames on wintry evenings

             Alone and missing the talk of American friends..


 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 28th. - 29th. - 31st. 2020. - October 13th. 2020.-

November 7th. 2020. - January 24th. - 25th. 2021.  
Born in London, Since my early teens I have had dual nationality. I like being an international person, a "Citizen of Nowhere" as Theresa May once pronounced, but I have deep roots in place and culture. My roots spread thousands of miles. - I thought this poem was going to be written in two parts, but I have only needed to add two lines to complete it.

(1) Washed Out by Rain. (A Lament at the Autumnal Equinox) (2) September.

                        1.

   Washed Out by Rain.


The world is silver grey.
Wall paper world.
The rain falling steadily,
Washing out the sunlight
Creating unreality.
The world is silver grey.

I look out at the world,
The wallpaper flatness,
The silver grey flatness
Of the world outside my window,
The world outside my house,
My home,
My hermit cell.
I look upon an empty street
But do not miss the people.

I look out at the greyness,
The silver screen vacuity
Of a world without horizons,
A world without a soul.
A world emptied of bright colour,
The laughter of school children. -

The rains dissolve clear vision,

Clarity fading into strangeness.

I look out through the window
At a rain dashed empty street scene
Shrunk to stencilled flatness
Like a pattern on the wall.
September has come early,
We enter the season of sad dreams.

I have learned to live alone,
To trust in my own reality,
To ignore the drab grey scene
Outside my front room window. -
Wallpaper world
Stencilled on my retina,
I walk away from you.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
August 26th. - September 22nd. 2020.
                   
                    2.

            September.


Tomorrow starts September;
   It is not autumn yet, but
I can smell the backyard fires.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 31st. 2020. 

Trevor J Potter's Art: August 30th. 2013. (New Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: August 30th. 2013. (New Version).: "Today all Ireland is weeping But, as usual                 No one is listening". The pain of ancestral hurt Enforced a sudde...

Trevor J Potter's Art: My Lost Gypsy Brother. (New Longer Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: My Lost Gypsy Brother. (New Longer Version).: Today is a day of bad bad news, No wonder the wind shook the windows all night, The rain blowing in under the eaves And soaking the beds...

My Lost Gypsy Brother. (New Longer Version).

Today is a day of bad bad news,
No wonder the wind shook the windows all night,
The rain blowing in under the eaves
And soaking the bedside furniture;
Today is a day of bad bad news.

I remember you sat by my bedside one winter
When I was laid low with a bout of flu
Unable to sit up straight and talk.
The seat you sat on has been wrecked by the rain
And will have to be sawn up and binned.

Today is a day of bad bad news,
But you always said it would rain when you died
Because you were loved by the angels.
I thought you were telling another daft story
But last night the rain was torrential.

The stories you told were always just daft,
And your mind never understood logic,
You were a true gypsy lad who lived the old ways
Until the Tories made that life unlawful.
They dubbed you a scrounger, a liar, a cheat,
So you took to raw spirits and perished of cancer.
Today is a day of bad bad news.

Doctor Johnson defined the Tories as bandits
In his Dictionary of the English Language,
A definition still true after hundreds of years.
Doctor Johnson was kinder to the old gypsy folk,
They were good honest nomads, neither thieves
                                                       nor marauders:
They were refugee soldiers from eastern regimes.

But today is not a day for anger old friend,
It is a day for tears and the planting of flowers,
In the fields you played in when a youngster.
Wild flowers that will spread over moorland and meadow,
A garden vivacious with bees and with birdsong;
A garden where you might trace the footprints of angels.

Today is a day of bad bad news.
The wind shook the windows and doors all night,
The rain forcing entry under the eaves.
I hope you could see the stars when you died.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
August 21st. - 25th. 2020.
For Mcgill died this morning in his early fifties.
I had to write this poem simply because my heart was breaking.