I brought him home in a little blue box,
Mi - lo - fo, The Laughing Buddha,
Fat as Falstaff and twice as merry,
Hey merry down derry, hey merry down dee,
but
No fool he, Maitreya, Buddha yet to be,
Re-born to enlighten a future, a time of
beauty
That only the fortunate initiate shall see.
Laughter his wisdom, wisdom his joy,
Is it all so easy?
Can this possibly be?
Should I really be sitting out in the snow
Under the shelter of the Bodhi Tree?
The twinkle that brightens the cup of his eye
Lightens my house, fills me with laughter
Rebellious and free,
ho derry down dee;
Like wine that is new his smile intoxicates me
Banishing my customary sobriety.
Now out of his box the whole house is his oyster
In which to meditate, or maybe, to roister,-
Whilst lacking a single thought in my head,
I snore in bed.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
19th. December 2012.
Wednesday, 19 December 2012
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Black Madonna (Revised Version).
Black Madonna
Scarred hands and twisted arms
Carved in ebony
Boy child
Created with the same ferocity
That replicated her beauty
Strong arms
Lift him to the passing throng
In a gesture taut with longing
Strong hands
Gnarled but strangely delicate
Fingers cracked by hard work
Holy infant
Made from the same hard block
Cut to create his mother
His hands are different however
Soft - reflecting the light
From the ring of votive candles
They are carved in white wood
The grain is faulty
Knots on the polished surface
Contorted like old wounds
The frail Franciscan Friar
Leans forward to kiss the rough wood
His face a mask of sorrow
Almost indifferent
I pause to light a candle
And sip some holy water
Before resuming my journey
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
15th. August 2012. - 12th. December 2012.
19th. July 2013.
This poem is a response to visiting the ancient Christian shrine of the Black Madonna of Willesden, North West London. The visit, my second since the image was restored, took place in August 2012, but most of the poem was written the following December.
Scarred hands and twisted arms
Carved in ebony
Boy child
Created with the same ferocity
That replicated her beauty
Strong arms
Lift him to the passing throng
In a gesture taut with longing
Strong hands
Gnarled but strangely delicate
Fingers cracked by hard work
Holy infant
Made from the same hard block
Cut to create his mother
His hands are different however
Soft - reflecting the light
From the ring of votive candles
They are carved in white wood
The grain is faulty
Knots on the polished surface
Contorted like old wounds
The frail Franciscan Friar
Leans forward to kiss the rough wood
His face a mask of sorrow
Almost indifferent
I pause to light a candle
And sip some holy water
Before resuming my journey
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
15th. August 2012. - 12th. December 2012.
19th. July 2013.
This poem is a response to visiting the ancient Christian shrine of the Black Madonna of Willesden, North West London. The visit, my second since the image was restored, took place in August 2012, but most of the poem was written the following December.
Wednesday, 5 December 2012
Love & Confusion.(Revised Version).
Tasting your wine
Inconsolable-stung by bitterness
The December shadows deepening
I think of you
Holding the child towards me
A delightful dark haired girl
I caressed her hand
The inconsiderate crowd
Self obsessed-thronged about us
Cold shadows
Dancing
Friends-in fact-are distant-strangers
Stuck fast-in their private-thoughts
Unaware of our selfless devotion
They have never-really-seen us
(My thoughts are a vortex of images.
Am I here recalling a dream,
Or reality refracted through time?)
My Love My Love
Your absence darkens my world view
I miss the lilt of your laughter
The child in your arms
It is too hard-too hard-to live-alone
Bearing the weight of memory
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
4th.-6th.-7th. December 2012.
Friday, 30 November 2012
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 tranquil beach
Hands barely touching;
The silent stars spun a glittering web beyond our niche in time.
Speaking few words
We watched the moonlight shimmering a fragile path
Upon the surface of the waters.
A magical path that few have dared to follow.
Like discarded fragments of our former lives
The stones that we collected on the shore
Were flicked across the tops of breaking waves.
Bad memories should not linger to deceive us.
Suddenly you kissed me.
A tentative kiss, like those that children give. -
Turning we climbed back up the concrete stairway
And entered the quiet house.
That morning when we whispered our solemn vows
In that Buddhist Temple high on the green hill
We had been changed forever by simple words.
No secular laws were needed then to bind us,
Only our fearless honesty.
But now grey walled Manhattan claims your time;
And here I sit and watch the London rain
Darkening the cold window.
December nights are long and strangely empty.
The distant moonlight seldom splits the clouds.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
27th. - 30th. November 2012.
June 5th. 2014.
In those moments the world seemed transfigured by hope
As we stood side by side on the tranquil beach
Hands barely touching;
The silent stars spun a glittering web beyond our niche in time.
Speaking few words
We watched the moonlight shimmering a fragile path
Upon the surface of the waters.
A magical path that few have dared to follow.
Like discarded fragments of our former lives
The stones that we collected on the shore
Were flicked across the tops of breaking waves.
Bad memories should not linger to deceive us.
Suddenly you kissed me.
A tentative kiss, like those that children give. -
Turning we climbed back up the concrete stairway
And entered the quiet house.
That morning when we whispered our solemn vows
In that Buddhist Temple high on the green hill
We had been changed forever by simple words.
No secular laws were needed then to bind us,
Only our fearless honesty.
But now grey walled Manhattan claims your time;
And here I sit and watch the London rain
Darkening the cold window.
December nights are long and strangely empty.
The distant moonlight seldom splits the clouds.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
27th. - 30th. November 2012.
June 5th. 2014.
Friday, 23 November 2012
3 Seasons 3 Poems.- Faded Snapshots of Kyoto - Sombre Winter Poem. - Late November.
1
Faded Snapshots of Kyoto.
Below us
The city seethes in heat
Here
Within the temple garden
Even the sound of water is banished
Wavelets of grey sand brush
The ancient rocks
------------------------------------
2
Sombre Winter Poem.
Bowl
White water reflecting
A fractured smile
On the grass
Frost settles
Untrodden
How many winter moons to wait
Before your fingers press unbidden
The glass door
--------------------------
3
Late November.
The mush of autumn clings to my shoes
leaf mould mixed with broken feathers.
I scrape my heal as I enter the house,
Reality belongs outside.
The trees suddenly are skeletons
Scratching a white sky -
Summer is long gone.
Must I grow old before the Lark returns?
Never mind. I have planted a hundred
Spring bulbs.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
20th. November 2012. - 23rd. November 2012.- 26th. November 2012.
Faded Snapshots of Kyoto.
Below us
The city seethes in heat
Here
Within the temple garden
Even the sound of water is banished
Wavelets of grey sand brush
The ancient rocks
------------------------------------
2
Sombre Winter Poem.
Bowl
White water reflecting
A fractured smile
On the grass
Frost settles
Untrodden
How many winter moons to wait
Before your fingers press unbidden
The glass door
--------------------------
3
Late November.
The mush of autumn clings to my shoes
leaf mould mixed with broken feathers.
I scrape my heal as I enter the house,
Reality belongs outside.
The trees suddenly are skeletons
Scratching a white sky -
Summer is long gone.
Must I grow old before the Lark returns?
Never mind. I have planted a hundred
Spring bulbs.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
20th. November 2012. - 23rd. November 2012.- 26th. November 2012.
Monday, 19 November 2012
Willow Pattern.
I am this shadow
You cannot hold me
Only observe the outline
Transformed into birds
We soar high above the arched bridge
Into the white sky
Briefly our song is heard
Among the Weeping Willows
The huntsman skims a stone upon the water
To shatter a fleeting image
But his aim is faulty
We have already flown far and wide
Out of reach
Later in another country
Transformed into our former selves
We sip green tea together
The simplicity of the ceremony
Instils a profound peace
Holding hands in the dark
The certainty of our love feels stronger
Than the rocks that make up the mountains
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
19th. November 2012. The first three lines written 22nd. August 1972.
You cannot hold me
Only observe the outline
Transformed into birds
We soar high above the arched bridge
Into the white sky
Briefly our song is heard
Among the Weeping Willows
The huntsman skims a stone upon the water
To shatter a fleeting image
But his aim is faulty
We have already flown far and wide
Out of reach
Later in another country
Transformed into our former selves
We sip green tea together
The simplicity of the ceremony
Instils a profound peace
Holding hands in the dark
The certainty of our love feels stronger
Than the rocks that make up the mountains
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
19th. November 2012. The first three lines written 22nd. August 1972.
Thursday, 15 November 2012
3 Poems. A Slip In Time. / Clown Portrait./ Dusk Mood.
1.
A Slip In Time.
I`ve revamped my space to corner some elbow room,
From convenience living to a cottage kitchen,
Eighteenth century at least.
Irregular flowers lean out of cut glass vases.
A sluggish wasp head butts the window pane.
Our household cat shunts her primeval memory,
Sometimes the weight is light,
Sometimes it weighs her down.
She misses the wasp by the breadth of a feline whisker,
A slip in time saves nine.
I prepare my frugal supper.
The potatoes are all home grown, likewise the peas.
I have adopted the simplicity of an earlier era.
But the computer remains on the table, squat and grey.
A virtual world packed into a plastic pod,
It helps me to complete my skittish poems.
A key is pressed, my space becomes a sanctuary,
Each little room a compact universe.
What can be gained if privacy is lost?
---------------------------------------
2.
Clown Portrait.
You requested a picture?
I have painted it.
My Clown smiles happily down
From off the back room wall
In a scintillating splatter of colour.
He certainly maketh my day
And therefore I hope that soon
He shall be making your day also,
Out shinning your Braque and Picasso;
(Don`t forget that tiny Kandinsky,
Humour always wins the day).
Meanwhile I can only wait
Until rejoicing I hear once more
The chimes of your voice ringing sweetly into the hallway
As you enter the quiet house.
--------------------------------------------
3.
Dusk Mood.
The midday heat burns your delicate beauty
You sit in the shadows waiting for the light to fail
I always walk out in the evenings
The air so pure blessing the sulphor day
Of cracked images
With a cool cure
Of patient resurrections
Hold my arm my love
We`ll doff our caps to the swans
Curling their necks from the sun
Closing their wings
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
(1) October 22nd. - December 1st. 2012. (2) November 15th. 2012. (3) July 1st. 1965.
A Slip In Time.
I`ve revamped my space to corner some elbow room,
From convenience living to a cottage kitchen,
Eighteenth century at least.
Irregular flowers lean out of cut glass vases.
A sluggish wasp head butts the window pane.
Our household cat shunts her primeval memory,
Sometimes the weight is light,
Sometimes it weighs her down.
She misses the wasp by the breadth of a feline whisker,
A slip in time saves nine.
I prepare my frugal supper.
The potatoes are all home grown, likewise the peas.
I have adopted the simplicity of an earlier era.
But the computer remains on the table, squat and grey.
A virtual world packed into a plastic pod,
It helps me to complete my skittish poems.
A key is pressed, my space becomes a sanctuary,
Each little room a compact universe.
What can be gained if privacy is lost?
---------------------------------------
2.
Clown Portrait.
You requested a picture?
I have painted it.
My Clown smiles happily down
From off the back room wall
In a scintillating splatter of colour.
He certainly maketh my day
And therefore I hope that soon
He shall be making your day also,
Out shinning your Braque and Picasso;
(Don`t forget that tiny Kandinsky,
Humour always wins the day).
Meanwhile I can only wait
Until rejoicing I hear once more
The chimes of your voice ringing sweetly into the hallway
As you enter the quiet house.
--------------------------------------------
3.
Dusk Mood.
The midday heat burns your delicate beauty
You sit in the shadows waiting for the light to fail
I always walk out in the evenings
The air so pure blessing the sulphor day
Of cracked images
With a cool cure
Of patient resurrections
Hold my arm my love
We`ll doff our caps to the swans
Curling their necks from the sun
Closing their wings
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
(1) October 22nd. - December 1st. 2012. (2) November 15th. 2012. (3) July 1st. 1965.
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