1.
Love Talk?
Holding hands across the table,
Talk of coats, hats, and shopping.
Eye contact direct, but dazzling.
Just cannot say "I love you".
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. 2017.
2.
Weeks After the Party.
I am still picking remnants of last summer
From off the front room carpet;
Flecks of golden foil
Dropped by laughing children,
All their toys broken.
Meanwhile outside in my urban garden
Tiny dark green shoots
Disturb December leaf mould
Weeks before the solstice:
Easter tidings etched on Advent sorrow.
I drop the flecks of foil into the waste bin
Then stare out of the window.
The fading past and doubtful future seem
Just one quick glance apart.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. 2017.
3.
End House.
The old lady`s end of terrace
Has been converted into flats.
Gone the chats across the fence.
Gone the Winter Jasmine.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. 2017.
Monday, 4 December 2017
Friday, 1 December 2017
(1) Not Quite a Ghost. (2) Sunday Morning.
1.
Not Quite a Ghost.
And as you walked away from me
I remembered the child that you once were
Four hours gone
Your expensive scent remains
In the textures of the back room
Transforming every fabric
Into a Succubus of memory
Even the indoor rose bush
Has flowered out of season
Adding a delicate tenderness
A pure ethereal beauty
To the heady mixture
Outside in the rain
The dead leaves on the garden path
Spiked into broken threads
By your high heals turning
As you turned to wave goodbye
A child waving from a distance
No adult could encounter
Your blue eyes wet with sobbing
Your white umbrella knocked and turned about
By a gust of wind
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 28th. - 29th. 2017.
2.
Sunday Morning.
Alert and assured
I walk downstairs
To greet the sun
This is my happiest hour of the day
Before car doors bang
And the telephone rings
Now 1`m at ease with the whole wide world
Pouring the coffee
Counting the roses
Honey melting on my tongue -
You asleep in our darkened bedroom
Curled in your basketwork of dreams
But the moment your hand rests on my shoulder
I cease to be who I think I am
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
November 4th. - December 1st. 2017.
Not Quite a Ghost.
And as you walked away from me
I remembered the child that you once were
Four hours gone
Your expensive scent remains
In the textures of the back room
Transforming every fabric
Into a Succubus of memory
Even the indoor rose bush
Has flowered out of season
Adding a delicate tenderness
A pure ethereal beauty
To the heady mixture
Outside in the rain
The dead leaves on the garden path
Spiked into broken threads
By your high heals turning
As you turned to wave goodbye
A child waving from a distance
No adult could encounter
Your blue eyes wet with sobbing
Your white umbrella knocked and turned about
By a gust of wind
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 28th. - 29th. 2017.
2.
Sunday Morning.
Alert and assured
I walk downstairs
To greet the sun
This is my happiest hour of the day
Before car doors bang
And the telephone rings
Now 1`m at ease with the whole wide world
Pouring the coffee
Counting the roses
Honey melting on my tongue -
You asleep in our darkened bedroom
Curled in your basketwork of dreams
But the moment your hand rests on my shoulder
I cease to be who I think I am
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
November 4th. - December 1st. 2017.
Monday, 27 November 2017
Trevor J Potter's Art: Three Poems. (1) Bad Music. (2) Bond Street. (3) P...
Trevor J Potter's Art: Three Poems. (1) Bad Music. (2) Bond Street. (3) P...: 1. Bad Music. For you, I am bad music. I am the song you don`t want to sing Any more. I am the love l...
Sunday, 26 November 2017
Three Poems. (1) Bad Music. (2) Bond Street. (3) Pygmalion.
1.
Bad Music.
For you, I am bad music.
I am the song you don`t want to sing
Any more.
I am the love lyric you need to forget,
Throw over,
Turn off at the socket;
The ear worm that drives you crazy,
Echoing through you,
Jamming all systems.
I am the repeat switch on your old player,
The switch you can never reset.
I am the number crossed out in your phone book;
The recorded message lamely unanswered;
The secret whisper into your pillow
As the nights draw in
And you bury your head deep in the blanket.
I am the cold wind shaking your window
As you set the alarm and put out the light.
I am your memory of that moment last summer
When a stranger smiled, and you smiled back.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 26th. - 27th. 2017.
2.
Bond Street.
This little book of poems?
Great art in my pocket,
Rembrandt compressed into words.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 17th. 2017.
3.
Pygmalion.
I live alone
With my dream of you
A pale figurine
I dare not touch
In case I lose my grip
Then stumble
Cutting my fingers
On the scattered shards
I live alone
With my dream of you
Afraid to face the consequences
Of seeing what I dare not see
Of knowing what I dare not know
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 27th. 2017.
Bad Music.
For you, I am bad music.
I am the song you don`t want to sing
Any more.
I am the love lyric you need to forget,
Throw over,
Turn off at the socket;
The ear worm that drives you crazy,
Echoing through you,
Jamming all systems.
I am the repeat switch on your old player,
The switch you can never reset.
I am the number crossed out in your phone book;
The recorded message lamely unanswered;
The secret whisper into your pillow
As the nights draw in
And you bury your head deep in the blanket.
I am the cold wind shaking your window
As you set the alarm and put out the light.
I am your memory of that moment last summer
When a stranger smiled, and you smiled back.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 26th. - 27th. 2017.
2.
Bond Street.
This little book of poems?
Great art in my pocket,
Rembrandt compressed into words.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 17th. 2017.
3.
Pygmalion.
I live alone
With my dream of you
A pale figurine
I dare not touch
In case I lose my grip
Then stumble
Cutting my fingers
On the scattered shards
I live alone
With my dream of you
Afraid to face the consequences
Of seeing what I dare not see
Of knowing what I dare not know
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 27th. 2017.
Friday, 24 November 2017
Brexit Babylon.
The sacred icons of the Tory Party
Lie broken in the inner sanctuary
Of the British psyche,
And no one cares to mend them.
Their burnished frames and gilded haloes
Blackened by the stench of cities
Sinking under the hollow god
Of sanctimonious piracy.
Young people with a social conscience
Despise the sacrificial altars
To capitalist supremacy,
They have ceased to crave the morning sun,
They seek the lights of democracy,
Of Human Rights, of absolute equality.
They dream a world with no hard borders,
No phoney saints in Tory colours
Scrawling lies on Campaign Buses,
No oligarchs, no poverty.
The sacred icons of the Tory Party
Lie broken in the inner sanctuary
Of the British psyche,
The votive candles burning low.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 24th. 2017.
Wednesday, 22 November 2017
Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) 9AM. 22nd. November. (2) Sad Dance. (3) Leila....
Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) 9AM. 22nd. November. (2) Sad Dance. (3) Leila....: 1 . 9AM. 22nd. November. The sun is different today, An electric winter sun, A brilliant white spreadsheet On...
Sunday, 19 November 2017
(1) 9AM. 22nd. November. (2) Sad Dance. (3) Leila.
1.
9AM. 22nd. November.
The sun is different today,
An electric winter sun,
A brilliant white spreadsheet
On which the clouds are printed.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
22nd. November 2017.
2.
Sad Dance.
My God, you are beautiful,
The pavements sing like children
When you walk on them,
Your black high heels
Tapping out Bach and Chopin.
It would be a sin to make love to you,
But you are not perfect,
A prized black tulip
Compressed between the fingers
Of a crazed admirer,
Your smile like a thin pressed crease
On a sheet of brown paper
Pulled tight over a birthday gift,
A box packed with whispered secrets.
Indeed, you are no Madonna,
But when I dance with you
In the privacy of your first floor bedroom
To the sad strains of a Slovenian love song,
I seem to be holding the whole of creation
In the circuit of my arms.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 18th. - 19th. 2017.
3.
Leila.
When I woke up this morning
I was dreaming of you,
Your light delicate hand
Always on my shoulder.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 22nd. 2017.
These three poems seem to belong together, a little family of verse.
9AM. 22nd. November.
The sun is different today,
An electric winter sun,
A brilliant white spreadsheet
On which the clouds are printed.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
22nd. November 2017.
2.
Sad Dance.
My God, you are beautiful,
The pavements sing like children
When you walk on them,
Your black high heels
Tapping out Bach and Chopin.
It would be a sin to make love to you,
But you are not perfect,
A prized black tulip
Compressed between the fingers
Of a crazed admirer,
Your smile like a thin pressed crease
On a sheet of brown paper
Pulled tight over a birthday gift,
A box packed with whispered secrets.
Indeed, you are no Madonna,
But when I dance with you
In the privacy of your first floor bedroom
To the sad strains of a Slovenian love song,
I seem to be holding the whole of creation
In the circuit of my arms.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 18th. - 19th. 2017.
3.
Leila.
When I woke up this morning
I was dreaming of you,
Your light delicate hand
Always on my shoulder.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 22nd. 2017.
These three poems seem to belong together, a little family of verse.
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If I were a camera I would zoom in directly On winter trees loud with anthracite crows, The ice white ripples on a cold shallow lake; The da... -
With you not here beside me Life seems a near blank page With only a comma on it. A solitary smudge of ink Where words should build cathedr...
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Buying incense by moonlight - The swiftly jostling crowds are all strangers. I walk slowly through the mob Eyes tracking my footsteps becaus...