Ghost Sonata. (Revised).

I must translate you into music,
Your smile, your laugh, your tears,
The soft curves of your body
Like undulating melodies
Written on the dawn wind
As you move from window to window
Peering into the silent house
To see if I am there.

I must transmute you into harmony,
The gold of Brahms or Schumann,
The music of the spheres
That the alchemists could never find
When seeking transformations,
Or concocting strange effusions
Of herbs, water and stones,
Magic leavening the art of science.
I must sift your face from the wind
That scuffs the autumn clouds,

Blows all things to nothing,
Transfigures all that was once real
Into the flickering lights of memory,
Visuals slowly faltering into imagination.-
I must shape your portrait into song,
Enliven the curved lines of the pastel image
With the muted heartbeats of delicate rhythms
That I can sense deep in my mind,

Sense in my mind when I look at your portrait
That I drew last time that you were here,
A stranger peering in at my window,
Yet leaving no trace when I opened the door.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 8th. - 9th. 2018.

Mistranslations. (Completed Poem).

Through a glass darkly
Implies so much more than
In a mirror dimly, or
See but a poor reflection.

I study raindrops falling
On the surface of clear water
When the wintry light is dancing
A galaxy of patterns
Crystal clear and brilliant,
Delicate miniature rainbows
That vanish without trace
Once the showers have passed
And dusk paints out the sun.

The sleeping face of my true lover
Seems transfigured every morning
By intermittent sunlight
Filtered through the bedroom curtains
As though through the tears of Ondine
When she sank back through the waves.
Deep shadows shaped by dreaming
Ripple underneath her eyelids
Dark streams I cannot fathom.

Although we love each other
We only know what we can see
Through a glass darkly
Or like shadows in a mirror.
I pull the curtains open.
My breathe fogs the gleaming window.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 23rd. - October 4th. - 5th. 2018.

The three translations of 1 Corinthians 13 come from (a) The King James Authorised Version, (b) The New Revised Standard Version and, (c) The New International Version. Three translations from the New Testament Greek of St. Paul, all different in tone and therefore, subtleties of meaning differ quite radically from one English Bible text to the next.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Loss in November.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Loss in November.:               1. White sunlight slanting Through cracks in the door Late roses in bloom Blind The old men shuffle On sticks and sto...

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...

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,

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.

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.

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. 

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.