Trevor J Potter's Art: The Villa Sazai. (New Version). Illustration for ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Villa Sazai. (New Version). Illustration for ...: Why are they looking at the mountain, These shapely girls who do not show their faces? Nothing unusual appears to be happening on the dis...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Peterloo, August 2019. (Revised Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Peterloo, August 2019. (Revised Version).: The blood of the martyrs of Peterloo Wells up anew through tarmac and concrete Pure springs of a river that slowly filters Southwards th...

Peterloo, August 2019. (Revised Version).

The blood of the martyrs of Peterloo
Wells up anew through tarmac and concrete
Pure springs of a river that slowly filters
Southwards through farmlands and city streets,
In crimson capillaries pulsating with anger,
With hope, with despair, with a hatred of tyranny,
With love and respect for both neighbour and stranger,
And an absolute insistence on probity.
The capillaries filter through moorlands and woodlands,
Along the rail tracks and over the airways
Until they seep into the shadowy marshlands,
The suppurating sores of lies and hypocrisy
That weep and bleed deep underneath Westminster,
Defiling our parliament and locking down liberty.
But slowly, slowly, the blood of the martyrs
Will clean these sores, dissolve the gangrene,
Make healthy and strong the Body Politic:
Truth is the backbone that strengthens democracy.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 29th. - 30th. 2019.

The Last Splash of Colour.

It is the final flick of the paintbrush that mattered,
Not the completed portrait;
Finished works of art are not the concern of the artist,
Once something has been done it has been done,
No, it was the final flick of the overladen paintbrush
Crashing colour against the bare plasterwork
Of the studio wall
That was the true farewell,
The last act of creation.
Beyond that terse statement there was little left to do
Except to shut and lock the studio door,
And retreat into the quiet hours of waiting.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
26th. August 2019.

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.