(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.