Under the Bridge, Poems 1 - 2 - 3 & 4. Illustration for the month of June on my Japanese Calendar. (Three poems and a Coda).

      Under the Bridge, Poem 1.


Under the curved bow of this bridge
The river, a placid mirror
Reflecting nothing.

The fisherman, casting his line, stirs no ripples.
The cargo boats seem fixed upon the water
Although the oars dig deep,

Dig deep through the glassy sun glitzed surface
With great effort,
But the boats seem never to have moved,
Never to have known a harbour.
Their cargoes are bound for nowhere
Although the crewmen sweat and heave.

Travellers climb the steep curve of the bridge
As though it were a mountain.
They cling onto the railings for dear life.
And yet they also seem to travel nowhere,
The bridge the start and finish of their journeys
However hard they struggle:
No roads are visible on either shore.

I cannot accept this river does not flow,
I want to lob a brick into the stillness,
Then watch the waves break loose.

                            *

     Under the Bridge, Poem 2. 


Sketched with simple brush strokes, black and white,
Mount Fuji dominates the far horizon,
A prayer in stone that cannot be erased.

Overarching the foreground the bow shaped bridge
Appears huge when compared to the distant mountain,
So small beneath the evening clouds.

The bow of the bridge seems to span the world,
But it is only a footbridge built with cheap wood
That crosses a river of no importance.

All things that folk build are merely temporary,
We are no stronger than Beavers slowing a stream
With dams that a fierce storm will break,

But Mount Fuji shall remain until the rocks catch fire
In the final conflagrations of the sun.


                           * 

     Under the Bridge, Poem 3.


Movement and silence
Frozen in time,
The mountain has caste no shadow.

There are no shadows in this picture.
The sky, a white and blue mirror
Reflecting nothing.

The water absorbing white and indigo
Is brother and sister to the serene sky
That lacks both sun and moon.

Merchants crossing the bow shaped bridge
Were sketched for no apparent reason
Except to make the bridge seem real,

More real than the inkling of a dream
Fixed forever on wood and paper.

I turn the calendar to the wall.
I can no longer look at this picture.


                         *

    Under the Bridge, Poem 4.

                  Coda.


Stillness and movement delicately combined
To create a tense tranquility
That puzzles both the eye - and mind,
Transform this painting into something that is more
Than a simple depiction of river - bridge and shore,
It is as though the world is frozen for a moment,
A moment stilled until the picture fades
And I remove it from my kitchen door.

The blues and whites have melted into grey.
The people seem less vital than they were
When first created by old Hokusai
As he worked his magic on the fragile paper.
It is as though, with precise art, he found a way
To depict clearly the weirdness of Satori, -
Stillness and movement delicately combined
To create a tense tranquillity in the puzzled mind.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 18th. - 21st. - May 6th. - 7th. - 8th. - 13th. - 17th. - 24th. 2019.

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.