Wednesday, 7 September 2016
Trevor J Potter's Art: September 7th. 2014. (Revised).
Trevor J Potter's Art: September 7th. 2014. (Revised).: The hushed day slumbers. Sunlight ricochets off white walls and stings my tired eyes without mercy. Almost out of sight my neighbour`s ...
Monday, 5 September 2016
Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Sabatha of the Twenty Eight Stars. (2) Love St...
Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Sabatha of the Twenty Eight Stars. (2) Love St...: 1 . Sabatha of the Twenty Eight Stars. Lifting the veil that only I can lift I meet your eyes, blue and piercing, ...
Sunday, 4 September 2016
Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems. (1) At the Entrance to the Cave. (2) Or...
Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems. (1) At the Entrance to the Cave. (2) Or...: 1 . At the Entrance to the Cave. Eurydice was not Lazarus. She did not reach the light. One death was enough for ...
Friday, 2 September 2016
Two Poems. (1) At the Entrance to the Cave. (2) Orpheus.(Revised)
1.
At the Entrance to the Cave.
Eurydice was not Lazarus.
She did not reach the light.
One death was enough for her.
For her love was a silent prayer
prayed in an empty church
to the flickering impermanence of a candle.
She turned back at the sound of music.
Retreated into the depths of her tomb,
far from the howling of disconsolate wolves.
Above her tomb her unhappy husband
sang to the dawn his irretrievable loss
while the wolves gathered to tear him to pieces.
For the wolves the perfection of his art
was a beauty that they could not endure,
a sound icon to be smashed and silenced.
Eurydice sat alone in the darkness,
her mementoes of her husband`s voice
falling to pieces in her fingers.
For her there could be no new beginning,
her life was perfected in twenty years,
that is why the snake bit deep into her ankle.
Resurrection is only for the unfulfilled,
for those whose tasks remain uncompleted,
for those that have not touched the hem of perfection.
Orpheus invented song and verse,
for him there was no turning back
to know a fate more ordinary.
For Eurydice the simplicity of a well lived life
was all that was needed to complete her journey
into eternal solitude.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 2nd. 2016.
-------------------------------------------------------------
2.
Orpheus.
Holding hands, lost in the dark,
your face a distant memory.
This torch intensifies the night,
I dare not turn in case I see you.
Next time I stray into your kingdom
your veil may be a different colour.
The photographs I took last summer
have faded leaving not a trace.
This morning when I swept the leaves,
an adder stirred beneath my foot.
Perhaps there is no after life,
and yet your touch is warm and tender,
so like the breath of a baby`s kiss,
or a delicate pulse deep in the womb.
But the shadows of ten thousand dreams
now haunt the rocks on which we stand.
I hear your voice. I turn to answer.
Your hands no more will rest in mine.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 26th. - 31st. 2016.
September 4th. 2016.
At the Entrance to the Cave.
Eurydice was not Lazarus.
She did not reach the light.
One death was enough for her.
For her love was a silent prayer
prayed in an empty church
to the flickering impermanence of a candle.
She turned back at the sound of music.
Retreated into the depths of her tomb,
far from the howling of disconsolate wolves.
Above her tomb her unhappy husband
sang to the dawn his irretrievable loss
while the wolves gathered to tear him to pieces.
For the wolves the perfection of his art
was a beauty that they could not endure,
a sound icon to be smashed and silenced.
Eurydice sat alone in the darkness,
her mementoes of her husband`s voice
falling to pieces in her fingers.
For her there could be no new beginning,
her life was perfected in twenty years,
that is why the snake bit deep into her ankle.
Resurrection is only for the unfulfilled,
for those whose tasks remain uncompleted,
for those that have not touched the hem of perfection.
Orpheus invented song and verse,
for him there was no turning back
to know a fate more ordinary.
For Eurydice the simplicity of a well lived life
was all that was needed to complete her journey
into eternal solitude.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 2nd. 2016.
-------------------------------------------------------------
2.
Orpheus.
Holding hands, lost in the dark,
your face a distant memory.
This torch intensifies the night,
I dare not turn in case I see you.
Next time I stray into your kingdom
your veil may be a different colour.
The photographs I took last summer
have faded leaving not a trace.
This morning when I swept the leaves,
an adder stirred beneath my foot.
Perhaps there is no after life,
and yet your touch is warm and tender,
so like the breath of a baby`s kiss,
or a delicate pulse deep in the womb.
But the shadows of ten thousand dreams
now haunt the rocks on which we stand.
I hear your voice. I turn to answer.
Your hands no more will rest in mine.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 26th. - 31st. 2016.
September 4th. 2016.
Wednesday, 31 August 2016
Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) January 31st. (New Version). (2) Harrow Weald...
Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) January 31st. (New Version). (2) Harrow Weald...: 1 . January 31st. Already it is the last day of the month, the New Year stacked with sc...
Monday, 29 August 2016
Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Dream poems. (1) Random Thoughts in the Herb G...
Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Dream poems. (1) Random Thoughts in the Herb G...: 1 . Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral. I went and dreamed in my memory of the chapel, ...
Sunday, 28 August 2016
Two Dream poems. (1) Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral. (2) Rogue Doorbell. (Revised)
1.
Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral.
I went and dreamed in my memory of the chapel,
sat and studied the herbs that now grow there
to create a metaphor of the resurrection,
vivid new growth amongst the broken stones.
"My head is like a sieve", the old woman cried;
"pour words into my ears they fall straight off my lips
then evaporate into the empty air".
"But nothing is really lost", I thought as I sat there
amongst the herbs and heaps of broken stones;
"I can see the shape of the chapel outlined in the raw earth
just like the carcase of a stranded ship.
I would like to haul that Drifter out of the sand,
restore the splintered mast, precarious against the sky
but daring me to climb".
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 28th. 2016.
--------------------------------------------------------------
2.
Rogue Doorbell. (Revised)
Ringing, without being touched
by the wind or an outstretched finger,
my doorbell, apparently with a mind
of it`s own, shocks me out of my nap,
my body curled tight in the Windsor chair,
my head pressed down on the table.
Perhaps my dream was a dynamo,
powering thought with invisible muscle
to ring the bell and wake me up
before my neck became permanently cricked,
and my face was rubbed raw on the wood;
or perhaps there had been a minor earthquake
that displaced the delicate plastic buzzer
and shook the hallway with carillons.
I will simply remark, that when I lifted the curtain
there was no one in sight on the moonlit pathway,
the gate remained locked, the way I had left it,
with the latch pressed firmly down.
I settled back in my chair to think things over.
It seems - when the bell rang - I had been dreaming of Leila,
a lost companion I have tried to put out of my mind.
I can feel my heart pounding - right now - as I type her name.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 18th. - 19th. - 22nd. - August 29th. 2016.
June 23rd. 2020.
Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral.
I went and dreamed in my memory of the chapel,
sat and studied the herbs that now grow there
to create a metaphor of the resurrection,
vivid new growth amongst the broken stones.
"My head is like a sieve", the old woman cried;
"pour words into my ears they fall straight off my lips
then evaporate into the empty air".
"But nothing is really lost", I thought as I sat there
amongst the herbs and heaps of broken stones;
"I can see the shape of the chapel outlined in the raw earth
just like the carcase of a stranded ship.
I would like to haul that Drifter out of the sand,
restore the splintered mast, precarious against the sky
but daring me to climb".
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 28th. 2016.
--------------------------------------------------------------
2.
Rogue Doorbell. (Revised)
Ringing, without being touched
by the wind or an outstretched finger,
my doorbell, apparently with a mind
of it`s own, shocks me out of my nap,
my body curled tight in the Windsor chair,
my head pressed down on the table.
Perhaps my dream was a dynamo,
powering thought with invisible muscle
to ring the bell and wake me up
before my neck became permanently cricked,
and my face was rubbed raw on the wood;
or perhaps there had been a minor earthquake
that displaced the delicate plastic buzzer
and shook the hallway with carillons.
I will simply remark, that when I lifted the curtain
there was no one in sight on the moonlit pathway,
the gate remained locked, the way I had left it,
with the latch pressed firmly down.
I settled back in my chair to think things over.
It seems - when the bell rang - I had been dreaming of Leila,
a lost companion I have tried to put out of my mind.
I can feel my heart pounding - right now - as I type her name.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 18th. - 19th. - 22nd. - August 29th. 2016.
June 23rd. 2020.
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