Autumn Travails. (Revised).

Perhaps we are already in mourning.

The passengers all appear to be wearing black,
summer a diminished memory.

We huddle inside the commuter train,
jostled continuously from side to side
like parcels packed in speeding vans.

As has often been the case in my life
I appear to be the odd man out,
the pesky chap asking awkward questions,
burying the nail deep with one hammer strike.
Today I am dressed in yellow and green.
Black is far too formal for me.

October will begin tomorrow,
the golden month with serrated edges.
A knife in the belly of the gnarled year.
The snarl on the face of the future.
Even now the sun grows mellow, an overripe peach,
soon it will melt into the horizon,
dissolve beneath a bruise of clouds.

I stare sadly out of the window,
the city drenched in sudden rain.
Wild trees lean like dying widows
against decaying wooden fences.

The passengers all appear to be wearing black;
I find it painful to look at them.
I think they must all be undertakers
en route to a colleagues wake.

I touch your photograph in my pocket.
The cold white paper, cold as your kisses
that time you finally said "Goodnight".


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 28th. - 29th. 2013. - June 13th. - 14th. 2014.
July 22nd. 2015. - October 23rd. 2016.- May 9th. 2017.

This poem has evolved out of Autumn Travails / Winter Blues, a sketch of a poem written on a train in 2013. Everyone in the carriage appeared to be wearing black, apart from myself. I felt like a stranger in their midst, a foriegn visitor who was not quite accepted.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Autumnal Mood Poem, Bankside London; Lovers Stroll...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Autumnal Mood Poem, Bankside London; Lovers Stroll...:                        1. November sun A marigold shrouded in white mist Trying desperately to bloom. We walk hand in hand By the bla...

Breaking the Code. (Revised Version).

She sat next to me
like a cat
on a cushion purring,
her shoulder, touching mine,
slightly stooped
as she looked away,
far, far away,
into imagined distance,
the secret utopian hills
of her imagination.

I could not talk to her,
she loved too much the silence,
the silence,
strong and eloquent,
of that true companionship,
that only loyal children
and long term lovers know.
And the scent of her warm breath
filled the narrow bedroom
like the scent of autumn roses.

"I must leave now, it is nearly half past seven.
I will telephone you once I get to France,
I am staying overnight in Central Paris.
Oh, & please do not watch me as I leave the house,
saying goodbye is just a bourgeois convention".

She picked up her suitcase and strode to the door
seeming so confident as she went,
but her face was as pale as frosted glass.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 20th. - 21st. - 23rd. 2016.
December 17th. - 18th. 2016.

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.