Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral. (Revised)

I sat and dreamed in the remnants of the chapel,
sat and studied the herbs that now grow there
to create a metaphor of the resurrection,
vivid new growth between the weathered stones.

"My head is like a sieve", the old woman cried.
"Pour words in my ears they fall straight off my lips
then evaporate into the empty air".

"But nothing is really lost", I thought as I sat there
amongst the herbs and heaps of broken stones.
"I can see the shape of the chapel outlined in the raw earth
just like the carcase of a stranded ship.

I would like to haul that ship out of the soil,
set up the mast, a spire of polished wood,
swing on the ropes and climb".

Pre reformation England haunts this place,
but the rush hour traffic pounding London Bridge
shakes the earth more violently than the bells,
Cathedral bells that call the crowds to Mass.

Here in this urban sprawl of steel and glass
small memories of a rural past remain,
this herb garden is one such tiny space.

 Time present and time past here intersect,
create a sombre stillness in the heart
of the vibrant city. Even the solemn nave of the Cathedral
seems not so holy as this fragrant spot.

What sort of resurrection is implied
by these herbs that pack the broken ground
that was once the stone floor of the Bishop`s Chapel?

Perhaps the interface of spring and winter
when flowers explode with life, greening the fissures
that fracture the city sidewalks. Earth bound spinnakers of green
transforming yesterday into tomorrow.

"The garden is now closed", the old woman called.
It seems that even she still keeps the hours
that drive this city like a clockwork motor,
grinding all quiet thoughts out of our minds.

Oh I wish that the Ship of Faith,
that I have built in my imagination,
could sail me away to a calmer civilisation.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
Original short version.August 28th. 2016.
New long version. February 22nd. - 23rd. - 24th. 2017.

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

Trevor J Potter's Art: Pas de Deux. (Revised).: 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: September 1666. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: September 1666. (Revised).: The flames touched the books, gently at first, lingering over the leather covers with a rough curiosity, that awkward disdain for knowl...

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Holy Feast, Launcelot Andrewes, Southwark Cath...

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Holy Feast, Launcelot Andrewes, Southwark Cath...: Our saint`s tomb is buried in autumn flowers cut down at dawn, the dew still fresh on them, but soon to lose their colour, shape and scen...

The Holy Feast, Launcelot Andrewes, Southwark Cathedral.

Our saint`s tomb is buried in autumn flowers
cut down at dawn, the dew still fresh on them,
but soon to lose their colour, shape and scent.
These flowers are martyrs picked to sanctify
those honoured words first spoken by our saint
at Christmastide
to jostling festal crowds
when vicar of St. Giles in Cripplegate,
words terse but packed with mystery.
"A cold coming we had of it", like any night time journey
when footsore camels groused, their packs too heavy,
and shooting stars the only signs to follow
when seeking for one child among so many.

The saints effigy now seems so out of place, being 17th. century,
lodged under the Caen stone arches, the delicate rib vaulting
raised in record time by pilgrim monks,
who had trudged from Northern France to build this sanctuary
not long after the Norman knights had conquered,
then laid waste feisty England with axe and fire and sword.
In this world the horse was worth more than a wife,
a bull more than a serf, a mastiff more than money;
and monks were two a penny.

These flowers represent an ancient pagan custom
revived to add some grace to modern times,
their  heads lopped neatly off, just like the Tyburn martyrs
although our saint died snugly tucked in bed.

But it is that girl, standing silent in the crowd,
her appearance innocent as a Van Eyck angel,
who captivates my gaze,
 disrupts my quest for peace,
my search for equilibrium.
A lonely figure, the only person standing
through every minute of the festive Mass.
A King James Bible in her trembling fingers.
Her grey eyes bright with tears.
She reminds me of my friend who played St. Joan
so truthfully she could have been the saint,
and for an hour or more, perhaps two hours,
I feel ashamed to be here in this church,
a shame that dislocates me from the prayers.
I feel that I would try to dodge the flames
with an unworthy, trite, vain recantation,
if I should be brought to the time of trial.
But this girl, I see her fierce before the judges,
proclaiming truth, integrity and love,
with incandescent power.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
September 26th. - 27th. 2016. - February 16th. 2017.

Like most people, I first discovered Launcelot Andrewes famous sermon through reading T S Eliot, who quoted the opening sentences of the sermon in his poem Journey of the Magi. For some reason, Eliot did not disclose his source. The other great piece of writing by Andrewes is his translation of The Book of Ruth in the King James Bible. The girl in Southwark Cathedral was perhaps a tourist, I have only seen her once.

Poet at The Proms.

I remember him at The Proms,
The North of Ireland man
Hooked on poetry and Bruckner,
A squat figure among excited fans.

We talked of farms and guns,
The hard labour of digging turf and spuds,
The slow long trudge for water.

It seemed so strange to me, a city fellow,
That a blunt spoken, solid country man
Should live his life for words,
And put by rugged toil for pen and paper.

But now, more than fifty long years later,
I read his books to learn more of the art
That I part share with him, though in a smaller measure
Than that rich crop of sayings, deeds and legends
That he gleaned from the fields of Ulster,
The back yards of Belfast, the rage in the Derry streets.

If I had known, as we talked beside the fountain
Waiting for the baton to be lifted,
The orchestra to thunder,
That I was chatting to a king of words
Who would one day carve the clay of language
Into a brand new music,
An epiphany of saying,
I would have pinned back hard my teenage ears
And listened to him with a greater care
Than I bestowed on Bruckner,
And would perhaps not have been quite so casual
About things I claimed to know.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 14th. - 23rd. 2017.  

Water Lily (Second Poem).

Girl, hair kept long,
flowing like a river
over the landscape of her body
down to the narrow ankles,
tensed, just like a dancer`s
pirouetting en pointe.

Eyes, equatorial blue with longing,
peering sadly at the grey shore
of her northern island.
Eyes, sad oceans, deep with thwarted love.

I watch her as she walks slowly towards me,
stepping over nets spread on the quay
like an expert sailor. The rucksack on her shoulder
stashed tight with prized possessions.

Love? I have searched for love for half a lifetime,
sailing from island to mainland, from continent to
atolls,
but only finding harbours packed with strangers,
and visitors rarely welcomed.
But this morning our hands touched in the post office
doorway
as we passed each other to and from the counter,
and I knew at once my life had locked into focus,
transformed without a word, a whispered note of
warning.

Girl, my boat is ready, ship shape to sail back southward,
provisions packed below, the sail made new and furled.
The crossing can be tough, icy cold and squally,
but with two to hold the course we should get through.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 13th. 2017. (From a poem started November 20th. 2016).

Happy St. Valentine`s Day everyone.