Trevor J Potter's Art: Paradiso. (New Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Paradiso. (New Version).: Our horses huddle in the August heat haze, Little piebald miracles on the verge of sleeping, Little vagabonds of the hills and valleys. ...

Paradiso. (New Version).

Our horses huddle in the August heat haze,
Little piebald miracles on the verge of sleeping,
Little vagabonds of the hills and valleys.
These sons and daughters of Olympian Pegasus
Ridden in dreams by wistful children.

Stars spin iridescent in the evening stillness,
They seem to sanctify the vacant spaces
No saint can contemplate without despairing.
Dusk descends early as summer grows old,
And a chill wind warns of a grey September.

The horses, they dream of those gypsy dealers
Who once rode them bare backed down the rapids
To sharpen dull wits for market trickery.
That was the morning we discovered Elysium,
The pounds cascading from out of our pockets.

That was the morning we bought the horses
From the gold toothed haggler
With eyes well hidden.
That was the morning we found that Elysium
Was barred and shuttered to folk with no income.

Tonight I am standing alone in my garden
And I think of the horses, tethered to fences
In a part of the country I now rarely visit.
They sleep beneath stars that could burn up the oceans
Or fill every planet with gardens of roses.

And I think of young Ivy, felled by a bully,
Lying unconscious, her black eyes unfocussed,
But ears tuned in to the murmurs of doctors.

Perhaps she dreams of our four little horses,
Piebald truculents feigning docility.
Perhaps she is dreaming of galloping bare backed
Into the rivers and over the hedgerows.

Perhaps she is dreaming of nothing at all,
But dances alone through the vacant spaces,
Dancing where no saint dare to wander,
But blessed by the power of a million suns.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 19th. - 20th. - 22nd. - 23rd. 2017.

For Ivy, drifting in and out of a coma.
She has been given a radio so that she can listen to music.
I have tried to integrate dream and reality in this poem.

Love.

Love is a fierce and dangerous thing,
A dark torrent under the skin,
Bruising the surface when we catch the stone
Thrown into the air by an unwary stranger
Just passing by,
Just passing time.

And we are lost in the mirror of the eye
Of a stranger who seems to study us
Like the old Red Queen confronting Alice
In the lost garden of talking flowers.
She sees nothing,
Only her features,

Features reflected back to her looking
But twisted as though by rippled glass.

Love is a fierce and dangerous thing,
A torrent rushing over the rapids
Breaking small boats upon the rocks,
Breaking them into a thousand pieces
That drift away
To vanish in a distant ocean.

Love can never be boxed and indexed,
Dammed at source,
Kept in order.
Love breaks every rule and makes none,
A dark torrent under the surface
Bruising the skin when the stone is caught.

And yet without love we are nothing at all,
Not even the echo of a strangers voice.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 17th. 2017.

Thamar.(New Revised Version)

The sound of thunder in the mountains.

Thamar walking in the garden,
A thorn in her heart:
A brother`s knife
Pressed deep into her naked belly
Spilling blood the colour of roses.

Incest was an Imperial custom

Sustained in Egypt - loathed in Judea. 

Amnon lies dead in the valley,
The sister he raped
Is white with ashes;
The baby clinging to her shoulder
Chokes on milk tainted with wood smoke.

Thamar would have married her brother;
Would have smashed the emptied wine glass
Under her heel
As she made her vows.
But Amnon`s love had turned to hatred
Because she offered him forgiveness.

The sound of thunder in the mountains.

The cries of soldiers drunk on murder.
Sabres dipped in Amnon`s blood
Brandished at the waning moon.

Thamar weeps in the sheltered garden;
The baby clinging to her shoulder
Alienates her even from herself.

She has felt the shadow of the wing of madness
Freeze the nape of her neck.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 14th. - 15th. 2017.
September 29th. 2017.

Note. I prefer the spelling Thamar to the more usual Tamar. I was surprised to read that King David would have allowed a brother and sister, (his Children), to marry each other to protect the honour of the wronged woman. The baby only brings desolation.

Trevor J Potter's Art: An Afternoon in January, A Suburban Street Scene. ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: An Afternoon in January, A Suburban Street Scene. ...: 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 th...

Trevor J Potter's Art: This Maundy Thursday Night 2017. (Completed Poem)....

Trevor J Potter's Art: This Maundy Thursday Night 2017. (Completed Poem)....: Kneeling in the silent chapel I study the blank walls where my favourite icons should be and sense the infinite shadowing me in a cold ...

A Miracle on the Northern Line. (New Version).

The woman with the red hair
Laughing in the tube train,
I do not know her story,
I only know her name.


The walking stick held tightly
By the old man at my shoulder
Burst into May blossom
When her fingers touched it.


The old man, being blind,
Could only smell the perfume,
He could not retrieve the blossom
That faded when he cried.


I tried to save the blossom,
Could only feel the cold air
Sifting gently through my fingers
As I stretched out my hand.


The woman with the red hair?
She sauntered off the tube train
At Bank for Monument Station,
Leaving not a trace behind.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 26th. - 28th. 2016.
July 29th. 2017.