September 1666. (Revised).

The flames touched the books,
gently at first,
lingering over the leather covers
with a rough curiosity,
that awkward disdain for knowledge
often displayed by the willingly ignorant
when faced with something they do
                                 not understand.-
The covers darkened, curled up their
                           thick parched skins
allowing the flames to break through
tough layers of protective membrane
deep into the pristine pages,
the pale faced children of the holy word
here gathered together,
compliant students marshalled at prep school
to receive a more salutary benediction,
the gentle blessings of a careful reader.

Soon all the books in the crypt were ablaze,
caught in the wrath of that Armageddon
that straight laced puritans had long since prayed for.-
The vault of the crypt burst wide open,
shattering the heart of the ancient cathedral
that had seemed to beat in the depths of the
                                                    maelstrom
a quiet prayer of hope,
not a scream of fury, not a cry of desolation.-
But when we stood among friends on the banks of the river
to watch London burn, we wept not only for people,
but for all the razed churches, for all the burnt books.

When London ceased burning,
and before our mallets beat down St. Paul`s,
the blood red walls left standing,
we found only one relic completely intact,
the marble statue of old John Donne,
enshrined, cocooned, in his funeral shroud,
swaddled up tight like a new born baby.
Perhaps he thought of prayers unsaid
          as he lay, rehearsing the perfect death
his insurance against the divine inferno.
Or perhaps he gained comfort recalling his sermons
preached out of doors at St. Paul`s Cross,
                             or a stanza or two from his poems.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 16th. - 17th. - 30th. 2016.
Revised February 18th. 2017.

Metamorphoses. (Completed Poem)

              
Cracks breaking through a black square.
White light of a winter dawn
crazing the glass of consciousness.

I wake up with a start.

Your face sleeping on the pillow beside me
is like a shadow in the dark,
a memory of what I thought I knew
before you turned your back and left me,
heaping curses on my name.

I reach out my hand to try and touch you,
making a memory whole again,
solid as marble,
warm as breath.
Invincible life renewed by an artist
shaping beauty from raw Carrara,
a young woman without a heart.

My fingers press the cracks in the glass.

Specks of blood spotting my pillow,
staining the cloth where you once slept,
your head pressed firmly against mine.
Two separate minds.
Two different realities.

White light streaming through the window
lasers me into wakefulness,
with a sudden violent jolt.
Was I awake or was I dreaming
as I lay wishing your return?

The window pane is firm, unbroken.

The pillow case clean and warm.

Is it your artifice I long for,

your painted face in the mirror,

and not the woman behind the gloss ?
Perhaps it was the art I loved,

and not the life in you.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 13th. 2016. - May 30th. 2022.

In Concert.

Late summer heat.
I rest in your arms
listening to the silence fall
like veils of mist across the moon,
the leaves not yet crimson.

It is 48 years since we sang Hey Jude
in the swaying crowd in the TV studio,
The Band euphoric,
the spotlights searing,

but to me you are still the pale faced girl
with the ash blonde hair and the quirky smile,
scorned by the press,
loved by the cameras.

After the Show,
the lights turned out,
the audience heave-hoed,
we sang and we danced all the way home,
the sleeping streets our rain dashed stage,
the cloud haired man in the distant moon
winking.

With the crowds departed we felt so lonely,
cold strangers in the midnight town,
out of place and      out of time,
our shadows walking before us.

Late summer heat.
I rest in your arms
and watch you fall asleep beside me,
your grey hair trailing across my shoulder,
your eyelids flickering when you dream.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 7th. - 8th. 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 ...

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, ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems. (1) At the Entrance to the Cave. (2) Or...

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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.