Tea Plantation of Katakura, Horse being Shod. (Revised).

The horse is king.
No animal or human
In the wide landscape
Is as powerful as he is.
He is not a captive in the small stockade,
He could easily leap the fences
And gallop far and wide
Across the yellow landscape,
Trampling the tea fields,
Kicking up dust on the narrow roads
That lead to all parts of the island.
This is his kingdom,
And he claims the right to gallop freely
Wherever he wishes,
Wherever his instincts guide him.

The humans are here to serve him,
And the stockade they have created
Is convenient for the time being;
Sooner or later he shall escape to the herds
Awaiting his return
In a distant forest
On the slopes of a mountain.
In the meantime its his kingly pleasure
To allow the blacksmith to shoe him,
To give him new iron hooves
On this pleasant afternoon
In Suruga Province, Japan.
He bows his head to no one
Although he appears to do so
When the bit is between his teeth
And the saddle upon his back.
One day he will escape this island
And swim to the shores of Hokkaido.

The horse is king,
Although he appears a servant
To the humans who think they own him.

And the slopes of distant Fuji
Are less inscrutable than he is.
The rugged icon lacks the potency
Of his living presence.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 26th. - August 19th. 2019.
Illustration for the month of September in my Japanese Calendar.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Kernow. (New Longer Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Kernow. (New Longer Version).: Away too long But Cornwall forgives my disavowal, Allows me to walk her rocky paths once more, But forbids my entrance into fierce Tinta...

Kernow. (Completed Poem).

Away too long
But Cornwall now forgives my years of absence,
Welcomes me back to trek her cliffs and moors,
But bars my entrance into high Tintagel.

This country is my true home, yet I`ve seldom lived here,
My name is written on these windswept shores,
But tonight I`ll ride the A Roads back to London,
To dwell once more among bleak concrete towers.

I am a child of the salt frothed sands, the restless waters;
The sluggish Thames is dull and grey to my eyes,
But I am tied to London by cords of sloth and habit,
It seems I live there just because I live there.

I need more space to plant rose trees and apples.
To paint and draw in sunlight; to write my poems.
The city lacks deep vistas, the proximity of legends.
It`s time I moved south west, affirmed my true identity.

This morning I trudge the narrow clifftop paths
Beneath the hulking shadow of Tintagel.
A rockfall has made the castle inaccessible,
And all I can do is stare up at the walls.

And yet, although I cannot cross the bridge
The legends that haunt this place seem to whisper
In the hissing surf and the shrill cries of the seagulls
Swooping low above the foam.

And I hear my name murmured in the cold waves
As they echo through the vaults of Merlin`s cave.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 12th. - 13th. - 16th. - 27th. 2019.
December 12th. - 16th. 2021.

Note. My first name is a Cornish name, and I spent a lot of time in Cornwall when a child and adolescent. I feel more at home there than anywhere else on the planet.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Artist, The Model and The Critic. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Artist, The Model and The Critic. (Revised).: This face is not a mask, The thick layers of make up Accentuate her beauty, Changes fault lines into graceful                          ...

Husband and Wife. (Revised Version).

You knocked.                      I opened.
A thousand birds flew into my heart
          Singing your praises.


           My heart is a drum.
A drum echoing with summer birdsong.


My heart riffs to the beat of your heart,
     To the pulse of your breathing,
      To the dance of your laughter.
 When we kiss we are one perfect instrument
Tuned to the world
                                 and to each other.


When we live apart
                             We are
                                         broken
                                                     chords
Jangling loud                     
                                             in vacant spaces.
        Sunless voids that shape no echo,
Sound no depths,                 no clear acoustic,
        Where harmony is a lonely cry
               Lost in the wilderness.


When we live apart
Our lives are empty,
Hollowed out, detached from meaning;
Forsaken songs at the edge of silence.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 4th. - 5th. - 30th. -August 3rd, 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Old Style Letters.(Completed Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Old Style Letters.(Completed Version).: It is like the old times. I sit writing letters to you, Pen on paper. No hurried text messages in a private code That shall be wiped ou...

Old Style Letters.(Completed Version).

It is like the old times.
I sit writing letters to you,
Pen on paper.
No hurried text messages in a private code
That shall be wiped out in a moment,
And never stored in a bundle
Tied by a silk ribbon.

It is like the old times.
We are both avowedly old fashioned,
Preferring books to mobiles,
Oil paint to photos,
Crops we have grown to tacky groceries
Picked off a shelf in a supermarket.
We would live in a Vardo if we could do so,
But camping by the roadside is no longer legal.

It is like the old times.
I scrawl to you long letters
Believing you will keep them
Underneath your pillow,
And never press an icon to wipe them away.
We have found an integrity in old fashioned things,
A no-nonsense strength that binds us together.

And when the stone memorials have split apart and fallen
Deep in St. Mary`s churchyard,
With luck my letters will remain
To tell our little story.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 24th. - 25th. 2019.