Monday Afternoon by the Welsh Harp. (Rewritten).

Making love in the park was not a good idea
However romantic the notion may have seemed
Before we put the idea into practice.

The cool October breeze was always going to be a problem,
But the squawking of the Moorhens had never been so loud,
And empty glades mysteriously fill with people
When privacy is looked for.

Our quiet tryst by the local reservoir
Felt like a stop off at a concrete lay by,
And the distant clank of cranes on the new estate
Came nowhere close to rivalling Tchaikovsky
However much you talked about Swan Lake.

That nosey Spaniel with the sodden paws
Cut short our interest in the great out doors,
But when we got home to an empty house
We quickly settled down on the settee
To ginger cake and mugs of Earl Grey Tea.
This proved relaxing, completely free of strife 

So unlike our awkward take on country life.

And the old gas fire hissed out a blast of heat
That frazzled naked stomachs, thighs and feet.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 9th. - 12th. 2019. - December 12th. 2021.

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...