Before the Move.

Perhaps you will not like my world.
Perhaps you will not be able to adjust.
Everything I have here is mankind made.
Everything I love has been thoughtfully manufactured.
It is true that I have thrown out heaps of shiny plastic,
Preferring wood and steel, stone and glass,
To bowls that cannot break,
Cheap bags that last forever.
Yes, I prefer objects turned upon a lathe
Or carved with a heavy chisel,
But I live in the heart of a labyrinthine urban sprawl
Without a mountain in sight,
A lake or hedgerow,
And my roses are not wild, they have been pruned and grafted
To become four living sculptures in my yard,
The prickly guardians of my private space.
No, perhaps you will not like my urbane London world,
Preferring instead wet grass beneath bare feet,
The larks in flight high above the tilt
Of your lopsided caravan;
Your lonely walks,
Your hidden nooks deep in the tangled copse
That the farmer rarely tackles with his saw.
Yet when we sit and talk all night - all day,
In secret, where no neighbour can disturb us,
We forget to notice the objects that surround us,
The quiet fields, the vast cars blaring hip hop,
The tower blocks, the horses by the marsh,
But quietly watch the thought lines trace upon our faces
Intimate runes that only we can read.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
25th. June 2018.

Coppelia (Revised).

Walking at last
A child again
Learning how to stiffly move
From A to B
From chair to table
From bed to door

Walking at last
On solid legs
The floors unstable
The walls dissolving

Six months stone still
Locked in a coma
Your eyes clamped tight
Neck in a cast
Have wrecked your muscles
Slowed your mind
Curtailed language -
Violent epileptic seizures
Have tossed you about
Like an old rag doll

Walking at last
You struggle towards me
Across a Ward
Wide as the world
Frail arms outstretched
A high wire dreamer
Resisting assistance
Fighting the air
A smile in your eyes

I must promise myself not to mention the tears
I cried for you every night last summer


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 7th. - 8th.- 9th. - June 21st. 2018. 

Two Poems. (1) Narcotics. (2) Urban Owl.

                1

          Narcotics.


Mind - released from the fog of morphine
Realigns with the rules of reason -
The sacred texts of untruth.

To get through the day I must give up thinking,
Stare at the screen - an automaton -
Stop trying to be myself.

When I shut down the computers I am nearly blind -
I cannot see the office for what it is -
A chaos of human stories.

Pain killers do not assist me to readjust
From electronic realities to simple living -
From video porn to innocent love.

It is only when I listen to the nightingale
That the world is once more my home.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 7th. 2018. 

-----------------------------------

                 2 

         Urban Owl.


Swift - darting hunter
Eyes - small volcanoes
Erupting into the night


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 7th. 2018.

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

Trevor J Potter's Art: Pauline. (New Version).: Grief lasts for a lifetime. After fifty two years I am still grieving for you. When I saw your self portrait made from stained glass I...

Pauline. (Completed Poem).

Grief lasts for a lifetime.

After fifty two years I am still grieving for you.

When I saw your self portrait made from stained glass
I was suddenly back in your studio.

I was a kid sprawled like a rug on the wooden floor
Making weird marks on paper.

Your paper.
                    Your charcoal.
                                             Your coloured pens.

You watched amused as I drew lines and circles,
Not thinking at all what I was doing,
My hand out-speeding my grid locked brain.

The moment I started to think about what I was doing
You snatched the sketch book away from me
And slipped it into a folder.

I protested, but then I was too wilful to understand
That art, like love, can only ever be true
When it seems to be happening by chance.

                               *

The last time we met was in the hospital.
The white sheets covered you like a shroud
That you snuggled deep into to outwit the pain.

"Please don`t give up art", you urgently whispered.
"But how? - But how?" I cried into the dark.
"Just don`t give up.- Promise me! - Promise me Trevor."

And for forty years after I could not paint or write,
But now, most days, I put my pen to paper.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 5th. - 7th. - 10th. 2018.

October 22nd. - 30th. 2021.

For a long time I could not properly complete this poem because I felt I had failed to keep my promise.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Memory. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Memory. (Revised).: When I opened the window this morning I thought that I briefly saw you Admiring the miniature roses. But then, with a shock, I realized ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Train Ride.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Train Ride.:                     The woman in the seat right next to mine Displays her pale green fingernails That signify some danger, or so it seem...