Trevor J Potter's Art: Internal Travelogue. (New Ending).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Internal Travelogue. (New Ending).: The planned engineering work on my mouth will enable me to eat grilled cheese sandwiches, and perhaps give me the confidence to kiss y...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Anna.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Anna.: Kreuzburg liebeskind, russet hair (reminiscent of autumn leaves pictured on my calendar, the one purchased in Vermont in 1964). Feet ...

The Play. (New Version).

One moment a Queen,
then a prancing pony.
A vigilant hound
unleashed by a prince
forcing a deer from the bosky wood.
And then Revenge,
trailing Rapine and Murder
on a leash the colour of arterial blood.
Finally Lavinia
hobbling ghost like through the forest
unable to tell her horrible story,
her tongue tied loosely to her hip,
her fingers swivelling around her neck.

The actors in this play have peeled back the skin
that grows like a virus over our eyes
poisoning our views of reality.

The actors in this play have let in the light
with a quick fix dash of sulphuric acid
thrown with precision into our faces.

But when we all bundle into the pub,
stars and audience in one great huddle
fighting our way up to the bar,
the actors in this play seem a tad more ordinary
than the tattooed miss pulling heritage pints,
and the man with the metal guitar.

Perhaps we all need to be strafed by the spotlight,
to shatter the spell that keeps us in order
and hides us from ourselves.

So ring out the bells for the next performance,
these dark age princesses with wolfhounds and gauntlets
are more real than our everyday lives.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
30th. July - 17th. October 2016.
14th. July 2017.

Titus Andronicus at the Rose Playhouse, 2016.

Autumnal Fade.

An early evening in October.
Not hot.                  Not cold.
My body aches for another Spring.


Trees, dappled like dried seaweed,
stretch gnarled branches against the
                                                   sky
to fend off the shades of approaching
                                               winter.


I stand on the platform watching the
                                              crowds
huddled in blacks and greys against
                                             the chill
that they imagine the promise of
                                             showers
will whet the wind on the cutler`s stone.

These crowds, tight lipped as they wait
                                           for trains,
last month were dressed in brighter colours.


And that woman, who is the centre of my life,
her absence cuts deep             as I stand alone,
ticket in hand, watching the signs
of the slow defeat of the life we have known.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 12th. - 14th. - 16th. 2016.         

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Door Stop. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Door Stop. (Revised).: I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon when my name should have been high in lights burning holes in the Broadway sky through...

The Door Stop. (New Version).

I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon
when my name should have been up high in lights
burning holes in the Broadway sky
through which the glitter falls.

I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon,
wallpapering theatres when the crowds don`t come,
an odd job man with a broom in hand
to sweep star dust beneath the door.

I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon,
stretching the carpet for others to walk on
outside the Flick House in the rain.
What I can`t get is some starlet`s gain.

I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon,
But write down this dear punters, write down this,
Being in sight of heaven is a kind of bliss,
and the moon is a spotlight, not a fake balloon.

I have spent my life on the dark side of the moon
quietly observing dreams that are not mine,
the usual predilection of a fan.
One day I might discover who I am.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 12th. - 13th. 2016.
March 5th. 2017.

A Love Not Spoken.

I only hear bad talk about her.
Posters flaking off a billboard
becoming less coherent by the day;
but that is only half the story:



she phones me with her
                         thoughts,
   but never says a word.


Her thoughts echo through
                                      me
although no words are
                               spoken.


Pictures flicker on a screen
like
        distorted film clips.


Her smile in a darkened room
reveals our mutual sadness,


the hopes kept strictly under wraps
because they are too private.


My mind a dazzled retina
on which her thoughts are grafted.


All our mutual dreams and fear
in one        small             glance.



I have only heard bad talk about her,
but only I can read her news.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 11th. - October 8th. - 10th. 2016.
March 6th. 2017.

I was thinking of both telepathy and on line communications when writing this poem.