Friday, 28 September 2018
Trevor J Potter's Art: Dreaming of Japan.(Completed Poem).
Trevor J Potter's Art: Dreaming of Japan.(Completed Poem).: It must really be autumn. I am watching films about Japan. I wish I could add wings to the roof of my house And fly there, Over the mou...
Thursday, 27 September 2018
Dreaming of Japan.(Rewritten Poem).
It must really be autumn.
I am watching films about Japan.
I wish I could add wings to the roof of my house
And fly there,
Over the mountains of China,
The long narrow land of Korea,
And fly there,
Over the mountains of China,
The long narrow land of Korea,
The multi textured sea.
When my house lands softly near Kyoto
I shall watch the red leaves fall
And listen to the sad voices of strangers
Counting the days to December.
Perhaps I shall then pluck feathers from the wings
And sacrifice them to the Shinto gods,
And thank them for gifting me an easy journey
To this land of vibrant colours,
So different from the pastel shades el England.
For some reason Japan is the place I love the most
Although I have only been there once or twice
And can hardly speak the language.
It could be something to do with the brightness of the sun,
And the winding climb through woods to a hilltop temple
Where prayers are offered in silence,
And incense breathes the breath of sacred Kami,
Through the wooden halls.
But I think its more to do with the serendipity
Of finding myself in a landscape of many colours
That in England are only seen on video links,
Or the Hiroshige prints in the British Museum.
Yes, it really must be autumn.
This morning I noticed a difference in the daylight,
A moist paleness I associate with October,
And the early coming on of London street lamps.
The weather must be similar in Japan,
Except the sunlight could never be so mellow,
Even in midwinter, snow weighing down the rooftops,
Travellers trudging slowly towards Edo.
When my house lands softly near Kyoto
I shall watch the red leaves fall
And listen to the sad voices of strangers
Counting the days to December.
Perhaps I shall then pluck feathers from the wings
And sacrifice them to the Shinto gods,
And thank them for gifting me an easy journey
To this land of vibrant colours,
So different from the pastel shades el England.
For some reason Japan is the place I love the most
Although I have only been there once or twice
And can hardly speak the language.
It could be something to do with the brightness of the sun,
And the winding climb through woods to a hilltop temple
Where prayers are offered in silence,
And incense breathes the breath of sacred Kami,
Through the wooden halls.
But I think its more to do with the serendipity
Of finding myself in a landscape of many colours
That in England are only seen on video links,
Or the Hiroshige prints in the British Museum.
Yes, it really must be autumn.
This morning I noticed a difference in the daylight,
A moist paleness I associate with October,
And the early coming on of London street lamps.
The weather must be similar in Japan,
Except the sunlight could never be so mellow,
Even in midwinter, snow weighing down the rooftops,
Travellers trudging slowly towards Edo.
The London of my youth was grey and insular.
In Japan I learned to see things as they are.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 26th. - 28th. 2018. - Rewritten February 2nd. 2021.
When I was a teenage singer I visited Japan more than once. The country and its culture made a massive positive impact upon me. To this day I love Japanese poetry, ancient and modern, and have been deeply influenced by both Zen and Pure Land Buddhism.
In Japan I learned to see things as they are.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 26th. - 28th. 2018. - Rewritten February 2nd. 2021.
When I was a teenage singer I visited Japan more than once. The country and its culture made a massive positive impact upon me. To this day I love Japanese poetry, ancient and modern, and have been deeply influenced by both Zen and Pure Land Buddhism.
Thursday, 20 September 2018
Royal Air Force Museum, Hendon.
Just look
How strange and beautiful these aircraft are!
More beautiful than tall yachts
Bucking before the wind,
Or the swoop and turn of Heron Gulls
On a hot and salty breeze.
I just cannot believe how beautiful these aircraft are!
Strange and delicately beautiful,
Works of art designed to kill
With the efficiency of a lioness
Protecting her boisterous cubs.
The spitfire, of course, is a compendium of elegance,
A suit of courtly armour in classic British style,
But the Mustang is a racer born and bred,
A silver stallion, magnificent and proud,
That only the bravest of the warrior braves
Could reign in and pacify.
These perfectly manufactured works of modern art
Primed and burnished
To arrow through the sky,
Were the adored protectors of my early years,
Destroying flying bombs above the London suburbs,
Or strafing Romel`s tanks in Normandie.
Yes, just look
How strange and beautiful these aircraft are!
Almost surreal and yet absolutely deadly,
Salvador Dali could have invented them.-
I have no strong nostalgia for the nineteen forties,
I have only friends and family in mainland Europe,
And I just cannot understand why nations go to war,
No cause is worth a human abattoir,
But the extreme beauty of these fighter aircraft
Completely dazzle me,
I look at them as I would study a Rodin,
And instead of being appalled by malignant power,
I stand stock still in wonder.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 17th. - 20th. 2018.
Thursday, 13 September 2018
September 1st. 2018. (Completed Poem).
1.
Scholars drawing arbitrary graphs
Have decreed the onset of autumn
Although the autumnal equinox
Is more than three weeks away.
I sit in my sun warmed garden
Listening to the hum of bees
Still collecting valuable pollen
From an abundance of summer flowers.
Male spiders criss crossing the patio
Have abandoned their secretive hideaways
To search for available females
Before the cold rains start to fall.
I value the raw beauty of nature,
The uneven flow of the seasons,
Not the politicized systems of men
Designed to make life neat and tidy,
And today, as I sit in my garden
I think of my long ago school days;
I was trained to abide by convention
And not to take note of my feelings,
Or to pack up my books and my pencils
When my heart beat to a different music
Than the monotone patter of teachers
Intoning the approved syllabus:
You must get an A grade in mathematics
Whatever the cost to your health.
You must learn to be a prudent citizen
And uphold the commonwealth.
Enlightenment was locked up in the library;
Philosophy and ethics expunged;
History lessons were fixated on Hitler;
Einstein equated with nuclear bombs.
2.
Listening to the slow breath of late summer
Gently fading as evening approaches
I relax in my sun warmed garden
At ease with myself and the world.
I am no nihilist, but I do mistrust logic
When used in the workplace and schoolroom
To implement a regulated environment
Out of kilter with the natural world.
Half asleep, I now study the spiders
Behaving as arachnids must,
Colonizing my concrete patio
As they seek to increase their species.
This morning I found deep in the garage
A litter of broken webs.
Old homes deserted at daybreak,
Their secrets torn to shreds.
3.
September is the saddest of months,
A dying fall pressaging cruel beginnings.
The female spider eats the luckless male
At the very moment they achieve coitus.
The crimson roses in my patio garden
Attain their richest beauty in September.
Soon the buds will turn black overnight
When early frosts cut deeply into them.
But today I sit outside and read my book,
My straw hat tilted to block out the sun.
I study data compiled by erudite scholars
To explain the complexities of global warming,
A nightmare partly caused by urbanisation,
The will to power expressed in concrete towers,
Like those built on the fields I used to play in
When out of school and free to be myself,
A country boy who loved to sleep at nights
In makeshift tents under the spinning stars.-
I put down my book then take a long cool breath.
I sometimes think we should abandon cities,
Live off the land, dwell in mud brick houses,
Accept the fact that we are not so wise.
Compelled by instinct the spiders hunt for mates.
The shadow that I caste does not concern them.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 8th. - 10th. - 13th. - 14th. - October 19th. 2018.
I have only added four more lines, but they complete the poem to my satisfaction.
Scholars drawing arbitrary graphs
Have decreed the onset of autumn
Although the autumnal equinox
Is more than three weeks away.
I sit in my sun warmed garden
Listening to the hum of bees
Still collecting valuable pollen
From an abundance of summer flowers.
Male spiders criss crossing the patio
Have abandoned their secretive hideaways
To search for available females
Before the cold rains start to fall.
I value the raw beauty of nature,
The uneven flow of the seasons,
Not the politicized systems of men
Designed to make life neat and tidy,
And today, as I sit in my garden
I think of my long ago school days;
I was trained to abide by convention
And not to take note of my feelings,
Or to pack up my books and my pencils
When my heart beat to a different music
Than the monotone patter of teachers
Intoning the approved syllabus:
You must get an A grade in mathematics
Whatever the cost to your health.
You must learn to be a prudent citizen
And uphold the commonwealth.
Enlightenment was locked up in the library;
Philosophy and ethics expunged;
History lessons were fixated on Hitler;
Einstein equated with nuclear bombs.
2.
Listening to the slow breath of late summer
Gently fading as evening approaches
I relax in my sun warmed garden
At ease with myself and the world.
I am no nihilist, but I do mistrust logic
When used in the workplace and schoolroom
To implement a regulated environment
Out of kilter with the natural world.
Half asleep, I now study the spiders
Behaving as arachnids must,
Colonizing my concrete patio
As they seek to increase their species.
This morning I found deep in the garage
A litter of broken webs.
Old homes deserted at daybreak,
Their secrets torn to shreds.
3.
September is the saddest of months,
A dying fall pressaging cruel beginnings.
The female spider eats the luckless male
At the very moment they achieve coitus.
The crimson roses in my patio garden
Attain their richest beauty in September.
Soon the buds will turn black overnight
When early frosts cut deeply into them.
But today I sit outside and read my book,
My straw hat tilted to block out the sun.
I study data compiled by erudite scholars
To explain the complexities of global warming,
A nightmare partly caused by urbanisation,
The will to power expressed in concrete towers,
Like those built on the fields I used to play in
When out of school and free to be myself,
A country boy who loved to sleep at nights
In makeshift tents under the spinning stars.-
I put down my book then take a long cool breath.
I sometimes think we should abandon cities,
Live off the land, dwell in mud brick houses,
Accept the fact that we are not so wise.
Compelled by instinct the spiders hunt for mates.
The shadow that I caste does not concern them.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 8th. - 10th. - 13th. - 14th. - October 19th. 2018.
I have only added four more lines, but they complete the poem to my satisfaction.
Tuesday, 11 September 2018
Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Christine.(New Version). (2) On Beachy Head.
Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Christine.(New Version). (2) On Beachy Head.: 1 . Christine. (New Version). I remember the daisy chain I made for you; You laughing like the small child t...
Friday, 7 September 2018
The End of a Family Holiday.
This morning, Friday, we stood beneath the lakeside willows
Watching two voles wiggle and squirm and slither
Adroitly through the lakeside grasses.
Juveniles on the loose far from the mouthings of mother,
They darted down a slope of mud and twisted vine shoots,
A slope minute to us but of wondrous height to them,
A giant slalom in their world of geese and fishes.-
This is the last day of our family get together;
The suitcases packed, the sandwiches in the freezer:
Tomorrow, at dawn, the day long drive begins,
From Camden Town to the shadows of Ben Bulben.
Last Monday I watched four straw hats bob like coracles
Dipping through shafts of light in the Chelsea Physic Garden,
The compasses lost or stowed.
The zigzag journeys seemed to have no purpose
Except, perhaps, to meander down the pathways
That stretch and curve between contrasted borders.
Sprinklers were scudding rain drops over beds
Of medicinal and malignant crops of herbs
That, when in bloom and sickly rich with pollen,
Become the in vogue hot spots for half of London`s bees.
I once dreamt the Physic Garden was a maze
With the weather beaten statue of Hans Sloane
A tetchy phantom scowling in the centre.
Those artificial rain drops looping through the heat haze
Drench deceitful Belladonnas, the simple Grapefruit Tree,
A mix of Echinacea, Orchids, Borage, the spindly Lavandula,
The unregarded Ice Plant that cures both cuts and coughs.-
Observed by the stern gaze of the stone physician,
I sat and pecked at crisps and crumb flecked apples
While watching the straw hats tack and dip and turn
According to the wisdom of the wearers.
My family look quite raffish in their hats,
Straw boats tilted awkwardly on tides
That ride unruly currents.
This is the last day of our family get together,
Tomorrow the car burns up the road to Ireland,
And I, who will be left behind, at home in North West London,
May walk, from time to time, alone across the Heath,
The chatter of passing strangers confirming my solitude.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 11th. - 23rd. - 27th. - September 7th. 2018.
Sunday, 2 September 2018
Trevor J Potter's Art: A Sad Farewell to Daniel Coffey. (Revised Ending)....
Trevor J Potter's Art: A Sad Farewell to Daniel Coffey. (Revised Ending)....: Farewell old rebel dancer, Dear Breathless Dan, King of the soft shoe shuffle, At last you have broken loose From the iron chains of gr...
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