Wednesday, 8 March 2017
Trevor J Potter's Art: The Bethlehem Angel.(New Version).
Trevor J Potter's Art: The Bethlehem Angel.(New Version).: The plaster falls away, And gradually, Like a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis, The gold angel is glimpsed Shimmering in the dusty...
Sunday, 5 March 2017
Trevor J Potter's Art: The Door Stop. (New Version).
Trevor J Potter's Art: 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 thro...
Saturday, 4 March 2017
(1) The Wrong Picture. (Revised). (2) Chinese Seascape.
1
The Wrong Picture.
The girl in this photograph,
so like an old girl friend
but, not her.
The street in the wrong country.
The sky too pale a blue.-
Wind flower blue
too Nordic, too washed out.
I did not know that pain
could come back with such intensity,
could spike deep a second time.-
Joy,
a phoenix rising in the heart
on transient wings of flame.
The past,
a paradox of light and shade,
a place where hope seemed natural.
I drop the magazine in the bin.
There go my yesterdays.
Seedlings planted out in May
always reached maturity,
our tiny plot of moss and flowers
out glitzed the tarmac gardens.
My nervous fingers slowly stretch
across the qwerty keyboard
searching for an answer.
Must I always fall in love
with faces that are similar,
live in a world of mirrors?
Hoping that this image
may reflect a better future
I return to the photograph.
I am thinking of a different street.
Poplars bending in the wind.
Kinder at play, parents dozing fitfully
on verandas dark with vines.
The girl in this photograph
would pass me on the side walk.
Her image in this magazine
has warped my sense of time.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 25th.- March 4th. - 17th. - 18th. 2017.
-------------------------------------------------------------
2
Chinese Seascape
Balsa islands in a black sea.
White swans drifting.
Even I forget the pace of time.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 18th. 2018.
The Wrong Picture.
The girl in this photograph,
so like an old girl friend
but, not her.
The street in the wrong country.
The sky too pale a blue.-
Wind flower blue
too Nordic, too washed out.
I did not know that pain
could come back with such intensity,
could spike deep a second time.-
Joy,
a phoenix rising in the heart
on transient wings of flame.
The past,
a paradox of light and shade,
a place where hope seemed natural.
I drop the magazine in the bin.
There go my yesterdays.
Seedlings planted out in May
always reached maturity,
our tiny plot of moss and flowers
out glitzed the tarmac gardens.
My nervous fingers slowly stretch
across the qwerty keyboard
searching for an answer.
Must I always fall in love
with faces that are similar,
live in a world of mirrors?
Hoping that this image
may reflect a better future
I return to the photograph.
I am thinking of a different street.
Poplars bending in the wind.
Kinder at play, parents dozing fitfully
on verandas dark with vines.
The girl in this photograph
would pass me on the side walk.
Her image in this magazine
has warped my sense of time.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 25th.- March 4th. - 17th. - 18th. 2017.
-------------------------------------------------------------
2
Chinese Seascape
Balsa islands in a black sea.
White swans drifting.
Even I forget the pace of time.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 18th. 2018.
Tuesday, 28 February 2017
Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems. (1) The Old Fox. (2) Russian Summer Hol...
Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems. (1) The Old Fox. (2) Russian Summer Hol...: 1 . The Old Fox. The chiming of the chapel bells sounds like the music of Caliban to the ears of the Sun...
Two Poems. 1. The Old Fox.(Revised). 2. Russian Summer Holiday. (Revised).
1.
The Old Fox.
The chiming of the chapel bells
sounds like the music of Caliban
to the ears of the Sunday fox.
He sniffs the air for tang of hounds
shouldering their litheness through
bracken and hedgerows
under the hefty shadows of the horses;
the men the colour of blood.
But this morning the air is as fresh
as it can be,
only the scent of willow and herb,
the distant odour of grazing cows;
and from the village, so calm and settled,
the Sunday morning sting of incense
that sometimes accompanies the morning
bells.
High over the steeple, an indistinct cloud
is perhaps a veiled threat of incoming rain,
a reminder that spring, the most volatile
season,
is marked with the tears that drenched Golgotha.
Now feeling a little less uneasy
the fox turns away up a track hedged
with thorns.
For a few more hours he can stalk his
prey
safe in the itch of his skin.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 8th. - 28th. - March 1st. - 2nd. 2017.
--------------------------------------------------
2.
Russian Summer Holiday,
The grey bearded man is very fat,
His paunch the size of a whiskey barrel.
A quartet of girls sway in a circle,
The steps of the dance their prime concern.
If his feelings get hurt they wont give a damn;
Their somnambulant grace weaves a delicate pattern.
Sand smothers their legs in tobacco yellow
As they sail on the drift of self hypnoses.
Down by the farm beside the seashore
A fox lies in wait for the farmhands to sleep,
And the sun turns the ocean to molten iron
As it sets behind the jet black hill.
The quartet of girls wander home together.
The grey bearded man glares up at the moon.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 24th. - February 8th. 2016.
February 28th. 2017.
The Old Fox.
The chiming of the chapel bells
sounds like the music of Caliban
to the ears of the Sunday fox.
He sniffs the air for tang of hounds
shouldering their litheness through
bracken and hedgerows
under the hefty shadows of the horses;
the men the colour of blood.
But this morning the air is as fresh
as it can be,
only the scent of willow and herb,
the distant odour of grazing cows;
and from the village, so calm and settled,
the Sunday morning sting of incense
that sometimes accompanies the morning
bells.
High over the steeple, an indistinct cloud
is perhaps a veiled threat of incoming rain,
a reminder that spring, the most volatile
season,
is marked with the tears that drenched Golgotha.
Now feeling a little less uneasy
the fox turns away up a track hedged
with thorns.
For a few more hours he can stalk his
prey
safe in the itch of his skin.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 8th. - 28th. - March 1st. - 2nd. 2017.
--------------------------------------------------
2.
Russian Summer Holiday,
The grey bearded man is very fat,
His paunch the size of a whiskey barrel.
A quartet of girls sway in a circle,
The steps of the dance their prime concern.
If his feelings get hurt they wont give a damn;
Their somnambulant grace weaves a delicate pattern.
Sand smothers their legs in tobacco yellow
As they sail on the drift of self hypnoses.
Down by the farm beside the seashore
A fox lies in wait for the farmhands to sleep,
And the sun turns the ocean to molten iron
As it sets behind the jet black hill.
The quartet of girls wander home together.
The grey bearded man glares up at the moon.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 24th. - February 8th. 2016.
February 28th. 2017.
Friday, 24 February 2017
Trevor J Potter's Art: Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cath...
Trevor J Potter's Art: Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cath...: 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, ...
Thursday, 23 February 2017
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.
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