Trevor J Potter's Art: Beatrice & Benedick, Premonition of a Winter Weddi...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Beatrice & Benedick, Premonition of a Winter Weddi...: Lady disdain Under the rim of your hat your eyes sparkled Reminiscent of dancing fireflies. You had not heard a single word of the serm...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) In the British Museum.(Revised) (2) The Stone...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) In the British Museum.(Revised) (2) The Stone...:                         1     In the British Museum. Blue and white ceramics, Small moments of absolute quietness In a room packed wi...

Waiting for Inspiration.

Waking on the wrong side of the mirror, lost
for words,
whole paragraphs dropping from my bedside
                                                         note pads
like dead flies,
their wings deceitfully swaddled by the spider
in a cocoon of lies;
I wave my pen at the fading stars
and wait for inspiration to float down,
a smoke stunned moth descending from the light,
a mosquito drilling deep inside my ear.

Perhaps tonight a new poem will come to life,
transferred on silent wings out of the dark
into my dog tired mind.
A message from the right side of the mirror
that I must transcribe quickly on my pad
before the words take flight out of my head.

Suddenly the mirror cracks and I fall through
a jagged chasm into the Ikea world
that I customarily inhabit.
"Oh well, another weird distorted dream",
I mutter to myself as I lie flat
watching the morning sunlight pink the ceiling.

I notice high up in a dusty corner
a Daddy Longlegs tip toeing upside down
ill at ease, toward her destination
in some small crack or fissure out of sight.
Perhaps last night that insect crossed my bed,
stepped lightly on my eyelids while I slept,
not waking me, but tap tapping through my brain
messages from a place I do not know.

I struggle cursing out of bed.
Pick up my mug of water, take a gulp,
then notice scattered on the bedroom floor
rough notes for this poem.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 12th. - 14th. 2017.
Our dreams and waking world interact more closely than we think.

Chinese Box.(Two Poems).

      Chinese Box. No.1.


No sun. No moon.
A temple carved from soft wood.
Two white herons on the water.
Black sky. Black stream.


                    *

      Chinese Box No.2.


Like an old monk praying
The branches of this cherry tree,
So delicately crafted by knife
                               and chisel,
Bend over the black expanse
                                of the lake
In an awkward gesture of adoration.


Meanwhile a pas de deux of
                               white herons
Poised mid hunt on the polished
                                        water
Seems to imply that even here,
In this monochrome miniature
Of a Chinese garden,
That the raw edge of life still stabs
                                   and butchers
                        Beneath the artifice
                            of the ebony lake.


The cherry tree is gnarled and ancient
 But will never lose a single blossom.


The island temple is shaped like a lantern
But has never shone a ray of light.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 9th. - 10th. - October 8th. 2017.
April 18th. 2018.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Pas de Deux. (New Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Pas de Deux. (New Version).: Gentle - soft - voice. Swans on the wing under the moon. I put down the receiver, turn off the light, set the alarm for 7am. Waitin...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Venus Ablaze in the January Sky. (New Version)

Trevor J Potter's Art: 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 bri...

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.