The Nightwatchman. (Completed Poem).

Engraved upon night,
Gaunt, solemn as ruins,
The moonlit wharves appear
Never to have known
The ear splitting dissonance of engines,
The clamour of voices,
The scurry of shoes.

At home in your arms
I do not fear
These hours of silent watchfulness;
The sparse silhouettes
Distorted by moonlight;
The threat of a flick knife
Uncovered in shadow,
The sure footed thieves;
But only know
The warmth of your presence
Curled deep into darkness,
The pulse of your breath,

Your fingers guided by praise.

Only this love makes life seem special.
Only this love makes life worthwhile.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 25th. 1967. Notes edited 23rd. October 2012.
Poem completed, April 30th. 2019.
For Ivy.

Trevor J Potter's Art: September Poem. (Revised Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: September Poem. (Revised Version).:                            She loved me                                                  and in September She wore the curling leaves in...

The Gift that is Forever.(First Draft).

The night was very still.
The hum of distant cars was lost
Behind the shimmering wall
Of a hundred cherry trees.
Only when the springtime rain washed down
The concrete channel of the motorway
Would speeding traffic become a raw wound of sound
Stinging our ears.
But tonight there was no rain,
And the pink snow of blossom drifted soft
Upon the sleeping houses
Silently.

You snuggled close and warm, just like a kitten
Seeking sleep and safety in my room
While the urban foxes roamed from yard to yard
Hunting scraps of food.
This was the first night that I learned to trust you,
To accept the absolution of your love
Gifted freely, and without a single question
As I huddled in the sanctuary of your presence.
I had lived a lifetime before this Easter Sunday
When you arrived on my doorstep bearing lilies,
Cradled in your arms with such great care
That not a single leaf was torn or bruised.

I thought I had grown too old to learn to love,
Too bitter and too angry with myself,
A divorced man haunted by a reckless past
Bereft of kindness, packed with sneers and lies.
But the moment that you stepped across the threshold
To stand beside me, silent, full of grace,
My fiercest memories faded out of time
Like wisps of smoke from off a dying fire,
And the only thing that mattered at that moment
Was your quiet presence, your hand upon my shoulder.

You looked into my eyes and gently smiled.
Your trust filled hopes revoked our pain, our fears.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
April 23rd - 27th. 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Paris. Holy Week 2019. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Paris. Holy Week 2019. (Revised).: My life was transformed by Paris, The City of Light opened my teenage eyes To a classic grace London could not show me. London became my...

Paris. Holy Week 2019. (Completed Version).

My life was transformed by Paris,
The City of Light opened my teenage eyes
To a classic grace London could not show me.
London became my second best home.

I discovered painting, ballet, music
Where Lautrec drew and Avril danced.
I learned to ditch crass nationalism,
To love philosophy, art, religion
In the wide shadow of Notre-Dame.
I learned to chitchat in two languages,
And how to mix them to make my own.
I learned to be a proud European,
Not just a bullish Englishman.

Last night I watched my world catch fire,
The flames crucified sweet Notre-Dame,
But the walls stayed intact,
The towers did not fall,
The Crown of Thorns did not crumble to ash.
The onlookers sang a sad Ave Maria
That made me pause, I knelt and wept.
These shared tears of grief and fierce despair
Can give us the strength to love and renew.

Notre-Dame will gloriously rise again,
But our tears will forever stain her stones.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 16th. - 17th. 2019.
I was so saddened to see the burning of Notre-Dame that I had to write something urgently, straight onto my Blog page without prior thought or note taking. I have rewritten this poem three times during the day, but now I consider it finished, well, at least it expresses what I was feeling and thinking. As a young boy visiting relatives in Paris, I used to attend services in the Cathedral.

Contrasted Syncopations.

Ballet is the perfect art form.
Poetry is a Cats Cradle of
Tangled threads.

When we spoke sweet nothings
While we snuggled
We were lying.

When we danced together
In the quietness of our bedroom
Our movements told the full story.

Each word
Has too many meanings
To be trusted.
What I thought I meant
Is not what you thought I meant.

The tangled knots of careless words
Are not easily unravelled,

But the lyrical mime of pure movement
Can never be falsified.

Ballet is the perfect art form.
Poetry is a Cats Cradle of
Tangled threads,

Cut them if you dare.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 12th. - 14th. 2019. 

The Villa Sazai. (New Ending). Illustration for the Month of May on my Japanese Calendar.

Why are they looking at the mountain,
These shapely girls who do not show their faces?
Nothing unusual appears to be happening on the distant slopes.

Why are they staring intently across the water
At the rugged cone capped with perfect snow?
The fat man is pointing excitedly towards the peak

Like a sailor spinning yarns of far off lands.
Why do their postures suggest a mood of expectation
More suitable to the dance floor than a stroll on a quiet veranda?

Why are they dressed in blue without exception?
A child is dressed in red, and the seated man in a cloak of vivid green,
But the old woman huddled in the corner is also dressed in blue.

She has trudged for miles, a human beast of burden,
Carrying the pack dropped on the floor behind her.
She has passed this way too many times to count;
This place is where she rests. The view does not concern her.

There is nothing ominous about the choice of colour,
The kimonos match the beauty of the sky,
The pristine sky of a sparkling May morning,

But why are they looking so intently at the mountain? -
There is a legend that in a cave deep in Mount Fuji
Has dwelt for aeons the Bodhisattva Asama,

And no petty mortal is allowed to look on him. -
Perhaps they are dressed in blue to show respect
To a holy power beyond their understanding,

A power that breaks the sword and nurtures peace.
But the faces of these girls are hidden from us,
We can only see their backs and fancy hairdos,

Their eyes will never catch a glance from mine.
And I can never know exactly what they knew.
They remain as secret as the Bodhisattva,

But the face of the old woman tells her whole life story.
She is dressed in blue for a very private reason.
She is dressed in blue because she dare not cry.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
April 6th. 7th. 2019. - Rewritten September 3rd. - 4th. 2019.
Completed January 25th. 2020.

The Hokusai illustration for May on my Japanese Calendar.