White Porcelain Plate.

The beauty
In a simple plain white plate
Eluded me
Until I watched the moon rise
Above a frozen lake
One still night in November.

A lotus flower unfolding
Did not remind me
Of rebirth and extinction,
Of Buddha or of Christ,
But of a hollow in a beggar`s hand
Held up to me for alms,

Held up to me in greeting.
Held up to me in grief.

A single paper cup
That once held holy water,
But now lies empty
Where the beggar squatted
Is beautiful to me,
More lovely than a curved Champagne glass
Filled to the brim with Blanc de noirs.

Simple things are honest things
I reckon,
We know at once exactly what they are.
Complexity disorientates,
Dazzles the onlooker
Just like a searchlight shone in tired eyes
To shock rough sleepers from their hideaways.

The beauty
Of a simple small white plate
Placed upon my table
Adds a touch of homeliness
To a crowded space
Dominated by my work computer.

I don`t need complexities anymore,
They don`t ring true to life or to nature.
A simple plate may last a thousand years,
A computer is outmoded in six months.
All I need is a clear view of the stars,
Home grown meals, a supply of pens and paper.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
November 15th. - 16th. - 17th. - 19th. 2018.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Street Scene, 9th. Lunar Month 1856.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Street Scene, 9th. Lunar Month 1856.: Studying a print by Utagawa Hiroshige I fall asleep in my rocking chair And find myself quietly strolling through The back streets of Ed...

Street Scene, 9th. Lunar Month 1856.

Studying a print by Utagawa Hiroshige
I fall asleep in my rocking chair
And find myself quietly strolling through
The back streets of Edo.

The people that I meet
Nod politely as I pass;
Their faces, deep in shadow,
Their voices muffled whispers.

Almost invisible beneath the yellow umbrellas
That shield their heads from the evening rain
Gently sloping down from purple clouds,
I sense their eyes are shrewdly watching me
With a delicate precision.

To find a sleep walker in their midst,
A stranger unperturbed by the rawness
Of the autumn evening,
Is an event that breaks all the complex rules
By which they live their lives.
They pass me by as they would pass a beggar,
Or an official they do not care to meet.

The opening chorus of Brahms Requiem
Jolts me awake. I have dropped the book
On the kitchen carpet. I observe it is not damaged
And has remained open at the page
That I was carefully studying
Before I suddenly drifted into sleep.

I pick up the book and re-acquaint myself
With the brightly lit shops and wooden houses,
The neat umbrellas tilted in the wind.
And for a moment I am almost back in Edo,
Strolling quietly through the evening crowds,
An outsider trying to make myself at home.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 12th. 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...

(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.

(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.

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.