Debussy in my soul.
Bob Dylan on my mind.
Delius in my senses.
Mondrian all around.
Art defines the world for me.-
Not politics, - Not war.
I was born in nineteen forty three.
A bomb blast knocked my mum downstairs
In the black out - all lights turned low,
And so the house seemed built of shadows.
My mother then was six months pregnant,
She would never use the garden shelter,
It was damp and feted, a rats hotel.
Upon my back there is a mark
From when her belly hit the bannister.
A nearby house became a tomb.
My mum, determined I would never be
An airman or a private soldier,
Taught me to draw, to copy pictures
Found in books and magazines.
I spent late hours listening to music,
My head tucked underneath the blankets,
Feigning sleep when father looked in.
He had been a sailor.
He believed in brute force.
He tried to restrict my use of the radio - & books.
Debussy in my soul.
Picasso on my mind.
Art is my refuge,
My motivation.
Delius in my senses.
Mondrian all around.
I live to paint pictures
Vibrant with colour,
Defying this epoch
That is violent to the core.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 14th. - 15th. = 16th. 2022.
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