Venus Ablaze in the January Sky. (New Version)

High over my suburban garden
Venus turns on her white light
of love
to interrogate the darkness
that almost obscures her less than
brilliant companion,
the fecund but murderous Mars,
Snug in her charms, but addicted
to war,
& tonight, lacking her pristine charisma,
waiting unnerved to be nudged into view
from under the vigilant scimitar
of the moon.

And I wonder if this rare, and fleeting
moment,
is also plainly visible to you,
that is, if adhering to your grandmother`s
custom,
the bedroom curtains have been left
tied open
as you lie, wide awake in your single bed,
your map of the stars slid flat beneath the pillow,
the Milky Way tap dancing in your eyes.

I bought your aunt the caravan that you
live in
a full twelve months ago
when the spiky wind was tearing through
the hedgerows
and oaks were split in two;
and yet I have not trudged the rutted
track ways
that bypass the pond and farmyard to your door
once in those twelve long months,
the book on Botticelli that I bought you
wrapped safely in gilt paper.

I am too much of the city man
to dwell far out of town
for more than one full week,
and yet tonight although all England sleeps
dog tired and dark between us,
the scimitar moon cuts cloth above our heads
in equal measure,
and glinting through a pin prick in crushed silk
Venus scintillates both our hearts with light.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 3rd. - 5th. - 6th. 2017.

Tonight, 4th. January, Venus was even more clearly visible over London, but Mars was relatively pale and indistinct. The crescent Moon was searingly bright.

An Afternoon in January, Harrow Weald Bus Station. (New Version).

That neat old man toddling home,
his bags bulging with tins of soup,
is closer to eternity than he cares to ponder,
his eyes fixed on the uneven pavement.

The school kids are blind to his predicament,
they rush by in swarms, like bees or locusts.
They bicker around a fleeting attraction,
a dead cat festering in a box.

A child pokes the cat with a plastic sword,
but does not understand what he is poking.
His mother drags him away by the sleeve,
then calls the police on her mobile phone.

A white sky slowly turning crimson.
The High Street packed with vans and lorries.
The schoolkids, bunched in rowdy covens,
fight like Amazons to board a bus.

The old man quietly turns a corner
unperturbed by wrangles and riots.
He is more concerned with getting his supper
than reading his name in the local papers.

A police car backing onto the pavement
momentarily hijacks my attention.
When the car speeds off with the cat on board
the old man has stepped right out of the picture.

The scent of snow upon the wind
hints at a colder day tomorrow. -
Far above the frosty rooftops
floats a pale white moon.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
Poem sketched, January 22nd. - 23rd. 2016.
January 1st. 2017. - August 7th. 2017.  

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Winter Wedding.(New Version). (2) Impressions ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Winter Wedding.(New Version). (2) Impressions ...:                     1 .         Winter Wedding.  Stretching out towards the sun four snow capped miniature roses. An old lady offeri...

Impressions on a Winters Night. (Completed Poem).

Christmas there is time for Classic films - 

Conjuring the past - reading Fairy Tales.

Sat and watched The Silence 

As though it were truly silent; 

Not a word heard, 

Lips moving on a ventriloquist`s face,
Masks etched deeply into shadow.
This is how I picture wartime Europe.
Grey vistas. Life a struggle.
Hands held over tear filled eyes.

The limping man,
Whey faced, always speechless,
Hobbling slowly home from factory work;
Khaki coat, unbuttoned, soiled:
An unlit fag in yellow fingers:
Army boots, jet black mirrors.

At night the curtains were pulled tight
To cover taped up bedroom windows,
Blotting out pin pricks of light.

The house was silent.
Two sisters slept in single beds.
I huddled in a cot between them,
A child cocooned in fear and night.

Old grandma stared up at the clock;
She could not read it in the dark.
"60 years gone up in smoke" she said.

The limping man passed by our door,
Army boots, jet black mirrors,
Polished until they cracked like ice.

Boots of ice reflecting nothing.

"That`s old Jack Frost hobbling by"
My bomb crazed aunt sadly whispered.

When half asleep I did believe her,
But feared much more the silent house
That hid the creaking of the floor,
The scuttling of a mouse.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
December 16th. - 17th. - 19th. 2015.
December 26th. - 27th. 2016 Rewritten, December 30th.2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) The Face of The Virgin, (The Feast of the Holl...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) The Face of The Virgin, (The Feast of the Holl...:                   1 . The Face of the Virgin.       (The Feast of the Holly Innocents). In the back streets of Bethlehem some women ar...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Winter Dreaming.(Complete Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Winter Dreaming.(Complete Poem).: Listening for the Firebird on the shortest day of the year, hoping that summer will come quickly. This was the first ballet that I danc...

Winter Dreaming.(Revised).

Listening for the Firebird
on the shortest day of the year,
hoping that summer will come quickly.

This was the first ballet that I danced in,
a small boy holding a sceptre made from balsa;
but now the taste of greasepaint and cold sweat
is a distant memory,
discarded cotton swabs at the back of the tongue.

Fog diminishing the view from my kitchen window.
Fog making the world seem grey and small.
I am sick to death with this tawdry English winter,
so outclassed by the average Russian chill.
No magical creatures to lighten the long dark hours.
No fiery legends. No oriental magic shows.

November was a drizzly pain in the butt.
December days are short, and wrecked by a lack of
                                                                       money,
therefore I am more than pleased to discover your
                                                                good news,
girl with the face and elegance of Karsavina,
girl with hair as red as autumnal leaves.

You tell me your suitcase is packed, your toothbrush
                                                                     selected;
your makeup in place, your hat fixed on with a pin;
I shall endeavour to meet you the moment that you
                                                                have landed,
two tickets for the Colosseum tucked inside my wallet,

                                                   a birdcage in my hand.

Last night I watched a film about the life of Pavlova.
I weep for those times that I was not born to live through.
Times rich in hope, abundant creativity.
Now all I can do is sit and recall the stories my aunt Tamara told me,
and dream of Diaghilev, Nijinski, dear Anna Akhmatova.

Girl with the face and elegance of Karsavina,
you are the solstice gift that I now crave for,
the dart of fire to pierce old Kashchei`s soul.

I check the clock. It is time to go to the airport.
I just hope your flight has not been delayed by the weather.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 19th. - 20th. - 21st. 2016. - December 26th. 2918.

Note. In truth I carried a box on a cushion, not a sceptre.
I see the early 1900`s as a time of hope and creativity. very much the opposite to the narrow minded nationalism and self centredness that has darkened and shrunk the horizons of hope and aspiration in this petty minded era. Open your hearts this Christmas, get rid of all pettiness. Let love reign.