Song of the Sixties.

Whatever happened to Anna Banana?
Whatever happened to Kevin the Witch?
Whatever happened to Raymond from Sligo?
Whatever happened to Rex of the Road?
We all got lost in a Broadway fantasy -
Don`t you know?

Whatever happened to Zoe and Jailer?
Whatever happened to Bungalow Bill?
Whatever happened to Bobby Driscoll?
Whatever happened to me?
We all got dumped on the ash tip of history -
Don`t you know?

Last night we were somewhere - today we are nowhere.
When the spotlights go out - we must make do - or rot.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
November 18th. - 19th. 2019.
Last night while walking to a rehearsal of the Friendly Choir at The Kiln Theatre, I suddenly started to list the nick names and real names of a few of my friends and acquaintances from my now long ago youth and wondered why it all went so badly wrong.

The Gift that is Forever. (New Version).

The night was very still.
The hum of distant cars was lost
Behind the shimmering wall
Of a hundred cherry trees,
And the pink snow of blossom drifted soft
Upon the sleeping houses
Stealthily.

You snuggled close and warm, just like a kitten
Seeking sleep and safety in my room
While urban foxes roamed from yard to yard
Scavenging for scraps.

This was the first night that I learned to trust you,
To accept the absolution of your love
Gifted freely without a single question.
Your quiet hope revoked my selfishness.

I thought I had grown too old, too cynical to love,
A divorced man who despised the Easter story,
Who mocked the ancient customs,
But when you arrived on my doorstep bearing lilies,
Cradled in your arms with such great care
That not a single leaf was torn or crushed,
My fiercest doubts melted like the frost.

You looked into my eyes and gently smiled,
Lost for words I leapt and laughed like a child.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 23rd. - 27th. - November 15th. 2019.

Venice.

All my life I have cried for Venice,
The city built for mermaids
And sailing boats.

The city where the descendants of Ancient Rome
Are born with webbed feet and fins
And can swim like fishes

Months before they ever learn to walk.

The city where I learned to dance on water,
Transported by the music of Vivaldi
High above translucent moss green waves.

But now the seas have turned as black as ink,
Darkened by the smoke from fossil fuels
That stoke the fires of a billion factories,

Factories as far away as Philadelphia.

The black ink pours across the floors of marble
(That glisten under moonlight in St. Marks)
And stains the gilded chapels and the altar

With a rime of filth that stinks of kerosene.
And the people cough and retch in putrid air
As they struggle knee deep through acidic slime,

Slime that suffocates mute swans and fishes.

Throughout my life I have cried for fragile Venice.
At first my tears were tears of love and exile,
But now my tears are tears of loss and rage.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
13th. November 2019.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Three short poems. (1) Wistfulness. (2) Sparrows i...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Three short poems. (1) Wistfulness. (2) Sparrows i...:                   1           Wistfulness. Writing a poem in autumn. Catching the falling leaves Before they touch the ground.   ...

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...

Trevor J Potter's Art: L`Arlesienne.(New Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: L`Arlesienne.(New Version).: As though commanded by some unseen power I spoke out your name, loud and clear Impulsively shouting your name in the room That we once h...

One Hundred Poems Explained by the Nurse. (Illustration for November on my Japanese Calendar. Revised).

Hunched in a boat rocked by dark seas
The nurse is reciting one hundred poems
As though her whole life had been lived for this moment.
Tonight she looks far into the frightened eyes
Of her kneeling companion, gently touching her shoulder
As she calms her with soft spoken words.

The two women crouch low in the flimsy boat
While the oarsmen stand tall and dig deep for the shore
Their backs bending into the weight of their work.
A voice fierce with omens and treacherous dreams
Calls from the depths of the indigo ocean,
Cries that only the sailors can hear.

The nurse and her companion are land loving folk,
They are deaf to the subtle voice of the ocean,
The tall tales of sailors mean nothing to them.
The one hundred poems that the nurse reveals
In all their sonorous and intricate detail
Are songs of the meadows and meandering streams,

They are songs of the forests dissolving in mist;
Songs of the north lands man deep in snow.
Meanwhile in the prow of the wind ravaged boat
The lookout pulls hard on a long green rope
Taut as a Samurai`s bow in battle.
He pulls and pulls - the rope is snagged on the spine of a reef.

He spies through the waves strange corals and fishes
That seem to have come from a time beyond knowing,
A lost world far from the shores of Japan.
The women crouched in the depths of the boat
Know nothing of the visions that the lookout is scrying,
Their longing is for home and a quiet fireside chat.

The sky is the yellow of a November evening,
The long black hours are just minutes away,
But the boat has not yet reached a sheltered mooring,
That is why the oarsmen are digging so deep. -
A voice fierce with omens and treacherous dreams
Calls to the oarsmen from the depths of the ocean.

Where this journey commenced I cannot now tell you,
And where it will end is a riddle and a half.

Perhaps answers lie in the tall tales of sailors,
Or in the one hundred poems explained by the nurse.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
13th. - 14th. - 15th. September. - 18th. - 31st. October 2019. - 

4 th. March 2023.

From the print by Hokusai.