The Mountain Weeps. Month of January.

Blue moon with white waves;
The mountain pool glitters and swirls.

From on high drops the waterfall,
Tears from the moon shaped pool
White in sunlight,
Blue in shadow,
Dropping to the lower pool,
Blue moon with white waves.

Three people watch the water fall,
They watch in silence
Then turn away,
Their kettle steams on the green verge.

Blue moon with white waves.
Raw tears cut through ancient stone.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 1st. 2019.

Image for the month of January by Hokusai on my Japanese Calendar.

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

Trevor J Potter's Art: Fernweh. (Revised).: I have never yet found my true home, I have always only been                                        "on Location", A displaced...

Fernweh. (New Ending).

I have never yet found my true home,
I have always only been
                                       "on Location",
A displaced person searching for my
                                           Soul Land
Far from the melancholy shores of
                                          England,
Or the misty time soaked forests of
                                          Fermanagh,
The frozen hilltops of far Nova Scotia.


The place I seek? Who can help me find it?
Describe it?
                    Define it?
A place so far back in time no modern
                                                 vehicle,
No smart Bugatti, no supercharged white
                                                 van,
Could speed me there along an autobahn.
 

Perhaps the home I seek does not exist,
A place where politicians are mere rumours,
A place where race and religion do not
                                                          matter
And the rich cannot afford the entrance fee.
Perhaps all that I can do is grieve like
                                                    Cinderella
Among the ashes of forsaken dreams.


Maybe I seek the Land of Lost Content,
The land before our mama ate the apple.
The land that was before I learned to walk
And still lay sleeping in my plastic cradle.
.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 28th. - 30th. 2018. - January 7th. 2019.
January 21st. 2020.

Bolero.

Invoking the bull
The dancer becomes the bull as she dances
And yet remains entirely woman
Even though the bull
Has entered every nerve,
Entered every muscle
Of her rocking
           crouching
                         body
As she slowly gives new life, new life to the
                                                                 bull,
The raw dark spirit of her fearlessness,
The fearlessness of the maddened bull
Facing the cape and the sword.

The matador is not transformed by the dance,
He is merely swaying to the beat of the drum,
Empowered to kill     what he cannot become.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 25th. - 26th. 2018.

Written after watching a ballet danced to Ravel`s Bolero.

The Puppeteer.(Revised).

These puppets make me doubt my own true past.
They write the songs that I discreetly wrote.
They dance the dances I adroitly danced.
These puppets try to make me disappear,
Hide me behind thick sheets, or plywood walls.
They lie out loud about who pulls their strings,
Pretending they are not the puppets that they are,
Pretending that my words are truly theirs.
But at night when I shut out the wintry moon
With curtains that my mother brought from China,
I pack these puppets into cardboard boxes,
And fold their theatre underneath my bed.
I can now sleep like a child, safe in my certainties,
And not be fooled by what the world believes.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
December 28th. 2018.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Winter Dreaming.(Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Winter Dreaming.(Revised).: Listening for the Firebird on the shortest day of the year, hoping that summer will come quickly. This was the first ballet that I danc...

A Ramble through My Sunday Morning Mind.

Waking at the snap crackle and pop of dawn
I listen to the broken consort of birds,
(The honk of geese imitating horns),
Interacting with a Jacobean love song
Broadcast over chimney pots and plane trees
By my neighbour`s FM radio.
Sunday morning in North West Four,
The wind westerly, the bright clouds scudding,
And purring cars replacing the click of heels
Rat-tat-tatting the weekday pavements
As the fallen scions of Eve totter off to work.

Late last night I heard the clack of boot steps,
A flock of students flouncing home from Camden
To reconvene their ceiling imploding party,
Or to flop down softly, a heap of disengaged puppets
Flung at an unmade bed.
If I were fourteen I would be right there with them
Making out to be a manly cocksure twenty,
My mouth a megaphone hoarse with madness,
My eyes glued to the girls.
Soon enough those kids will be as bald as I am,
Self mocking and unkempt, bemused at being old.

Tomorrow, it seems, is just another Monday,
The day of the week God never pronounced good,
His mind already fixed on twice blessed Tuesday,
Adam still dumb in the lifeless clay.
And so I can waste another hour or two in bed,
Another hour listening to my neighbour`s FM radio
Before I dawdle soulfully to 9.30 Mass
To sing out loud the words I sometimes believe in,
That is when my mind is awake,

Because only when singing am I truly alive and awake,
Awake like a dancer to subtle syncopations,
Awake as the birds when they signal the dawn.-
Oh well, time to get out of bed and make ready,
Two hours singing carols should perk up the day.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
8th.-10th.-22nd. December 2018.