Saturday, 10 November 2018

Trevor J Potter's Art: Schooled by Cinema.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Schooled by Cinema.:                       1 You teach us with machines Wars imagery, Projecting through dark halls transparent dead, Their days of terror r...

Thursday, 8 November 2018

(1) Love Story. Revised.(2) A Fragment.

                  1.

          Love Story.


My personal B Class Movie
Flickers through my brain,
Preventing me from sleeping.

A girl who no longer lives
Walks down a street that has ceased to exist,
I stumble and fall at her side.
If we had married would she still be alive?

I remember the dogs barking,
The moon the colour of marigolds
Huge in an autumn sky.

The silence between us was brittle
With a thousand unspoken regrets.

Love tore us to tiny shreds
As though we were paper dolls,

Dolls thrown out by a child
In a sudden selfish fit.

The girl succumbed to opioids.
I rarely leave my home.
We could not have lived together.
We could never have lived apart.

My personal B Class Movie
Flickers through my brain,
Preventing me from sleeping,

Casting shadows on the moon.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 7th. - 8th. - 10th. 2018.

                  2.

       A Fragment.

I cried out my heart,
Only the wind heard me,
And a bird with a broken wing.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 6th. 2018.

Sunday, 4 November 2018

(1) Hiroshima Remembered. (2) September 30th. 2018. (3) Phone Call.

Hiroshima Remembered.


Houses of wood and paper,
How beautiful.
How fleeting.

           *

September 30th. 2018.


Not your voice,
Not your heartbeat,
Just your breathe upon my face.

           *

The patio rose
I sent you last summer,
Is it still blooming?

            *

Another autumn,
The sheets are cold,
Faded lipstick on my pillow.

            *

I sat meditating.
When you sang in the kitchen
I laughed like a child.

            *
   
    Phone Call.

You call me.
I pick up the receiver.
You are too shy to speak.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 30th. - November 4th. 2018.

Wednesday, 31 October 2018

Age.


Now that I am more than 70
My life line is almost undone,
But old age should be a time of fecundity,
Not of dearth.

Cracked trunks held firm by steel supports
May yield their richest harvests
The closer they lean to the turf.

Spring blossoms adorning gnarled boughs
Open wide, like a prisoner`s eyes
To filch a glimmer of light,

A glimpse of the morning sun.
But too soon, frail petals descending,
Transformed into rust coloured tears
That dissolve in the cold dank earth,

Where all that begins must vanish,
All that ends be brought to new birth.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
April 27th. 28th. 2014. - October 30th. 31st. 2018.

Sunday, 28 October 2018

(1) These We Cannot Know. (2) Rose hips.


My sperm frozen - graded and stored -
Perhaps - in a hundred years or more -
I shall father IVF children

A new family that may from time to time
Imagine my voice explaining to them
A history almost completely forgotten

A history sketched in dusty folders
Intelligible only to specialist scholars
Who can decipher a lost dialect

A parochial language - long out of fashion
Because all that we love has faded to dust
Like carnations pressed in a wedding album

A plush book packed with faded pictures
Even the widow can no longer decipher
Or bring back to life in her imagination.

We are all the children of hope filled dreams
That vanish like frost in the morning light.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 27th. - 28th. 2018.

                     *

              Rose hips.

After the first frost
The rose hips are
Delicious


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 29th.2018.

Wednesday, 24 October 2018

Japan.(Revised).


I did not know Mount Fuji was so large.
The artist has certainly come up with a powerful image,
Part real - part picture postcard.
Sailing boats - four or five deft pen strokes -
Float in a pale blue bay.
A purple scarf of cloud surrounds the mountain top.
Sometimes I press my ears close to the paper,
But as yet I`ve never heard the temple bells.

This dream of Edo was painted years before
American gunships appeared one misty morning
To blackmail the Shogunate into modern times.
This is the dream not shown in the faded images
Arranged, with awkward skill, not careful art,
By a young marine back in the eighteen eighties,
During a courtesy visit by the British Navy.
He prefered the box and lens to crafted woodcuts,
The truth was best preserved in black and white.

The glass plates have long ago been broken.
The photos in my great grandfathers album
Show an old world splintering at the edges,
Falling apart under the weight of progress.
No voices are extant, only these silent pictures
Of scenes so still they could have been invented
But remain authentic to the clash of cultures. -

The sun has set over distant Fuji.
A strip of Prussian Blue depicts the sky.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 4th. - 6th. 2017. - October 23rd. - 24th. - December 3rd. 2018.
October 27th. - 28th. 2019.

Sunday, 21 October 2018

The Girl with Smoke Blue Eyes. (In the countryside near Kehl am Rhein).


It is the voices of bees I dream every night
While I think of my old home by the Rhine.
The voices of bees in the drowsy air
Accompanying our walk along the dyke
That in places is higher than the neat farm houses,
The silvery windows of Lutheran churches.

It is the voices of bees in the dank chill wood
Where we kissed in secret among the echoes
Of ancient gods and arrogant Nazis,
Of cannibal witches and inconceivable wars.
We kissed in secret, out of sight of the paths
Crowded with chattering Sunday hikers.

The bitter sweet taste of rye bread and honey
Stung my tongue as your lips touched mine.
Your smoke blue eyes were full of questions
I could not answer, even though I tried.
An invisible sword marked a barrier between us
As though between sleeping knight and maiden.

But this sword was our dread of the cruelties of time
Not a faded shadow of myth and legend.
We knew that I soon had to pack my suitcase
And take the train and boat to England.
My fellow islanders had turned their backs on Europe
And so I could no longer hope or remain,

Remain with my girl with the smoke blue eyes
Who walked with me quietly by the wide river
Watching the wild swans guiding their cygnets
Between the miniature offshore islets;
Walked with me quietly upon the tall dyke
Entranced by the voices of wild woodland bees.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 21st. 2018. 

Winter Night.