The Cat Transformed into a Woman. (Revised).

She retained some of her feline nature.
The lack of fur perplexed her,
So she grew her hair down to her slender heels.
"A little house on her head", she called it,
A little house that was dangerous in high winds.

Cutting nales always proved an awkward problem,
She was used to claws that rarely grew too long
And were easy to manicure on posts and doors.
Human nales, it seems, were a very different matter,
They cracked and snapped, and sometimes curled sharp
                                                        beneath her toes.
Even mice ran rings around her when she stalked them;
A cat on hands and knees is so easy to escape.

At a glance she seemed entirely, naturally, human,
Especially when snug tight on her lovers lap,
A sandwich in one hand, a whiskey in the other,
A Gold Sobranie lit between her lips.
But some nights she would sit close up to the window
And cry sad secrets to the waning moon.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
14th. - 17th. June 2020.
My response to the watercolour illustration by Gustave Moreau.

Trevor J Potter's Art: My Ideal Funeral.

Trevor J Potter's Art: My Ideal Funeral. (Revised).:                  1 . An Early Encounter. When I die Let there be No curtained Hearse To carry me Along the Hampstead High Street ...

The Open Door. (Recitative and Aria).

                 Recitative.

I left the door open by mistake.
No thieves came,
No trespasser entered,
But the whole house was filled
With an unexpected light,
And birdsong thrilled the air.

I was waiting for the telephone to ring.
Good news spoken down the line
Could not outshine this singular moment,
Could not have similar power.
I improvised a melody in my head,
But the moment I added words the music faltered.

I was wondering how you were in the hospital,
An oxygen mask clamped over your face,
Brusque nurses whispering into the dark
And mysterious byways of your sleeping mind.
The phone only rings when the doctors find the time
To deal with - what for them - are peripheral matters.

But such hurried words confute truth with complexities,
Replace a longed for hug with rhetoric,
A kiss with bland statistics,
A smile with dull advice.
The sunlight dancing down the hall
Brings brighter gifts of hope.

                     Aria.

If I could hide ten Nightingales in my coat
I would deftly smuggle them into your ward
Then let them loose to fly over your bed,
Cascading music deep into your night.

But if this does not shake you from your sleep,
I will ask the thieves to saunter through the door,
Take what they need from off the shelves and table,
Leaving me an epitaph to write.

But rest assured I am no defeatist yet,
The morning sun was the fire of the Paraclete,
Not the precursor to an afternoon of rain.
The sun still burns my face at six o clock.

And the front door now stays open every day,
Until I hear your laughter in the hall.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 2nd. 2020.
A development of the unfinished poem Whit Sunday written May 22nd. - July 3rd. 2017.
The poet is writing this poem to a person lost in dreams from his own dream world.

After the Sudden Storm. (Revised).

Beethoven could not hear thunder,
But could describe it with music.
I listen to him sometimes on the radio,
But only when I`m too tired to write.



After the storm the silence
Transfigures the drenched landscape,
Stuns my mind and senses
With a new tranquility.

This silence is far more perfect,
More potent, more deeply powerful
Than any song or symphony,
The consolations of Chuang Tzu or Buddha,
The last thoughts of Wittgenstein.

After the rain has ceased
My plants grow straight and green
Almost at the instant,
The drenched soil black and beautiful.



In the stillness after the storm
I sit and write this poem,
My fingers tapping the keyboard
Mark a gentler rhythm than raindrops,
The radio now just noise bereft of meaning,

And suddenly all the birds in the neighbourhood
Thrill the air with singing.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 6th. - 8th.2020.
As well as intently listening to the news with a growing sense of horror I have this week been reading the poems of both Emily Dickinson and Edward Thomas. We had a very fierce short storm this evening.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Dead Infantas. Parts One & Two & Coda..A Dark ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Dead Infantas. Parts One & Two & Coda..A Dark ...:                                    Part One.            The Dead Infantas. It is a time of ruined cities, Of silent streets haunted by...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Under the Bridge, Poems 1 - 2 - 3 & 4. Illustratio...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Under the Bridge, Poems 1 - 2 - 3 & 4. Illustratio...:       Under the Bridge, Poem 1. Under the curved bow of this bridge The river, a placid mirror Reflecting nothing. The fisherman, cas...

Whit Sunday Morning 2020.

Today is Pentecost, I change my coat
From winter wear to summer wear,
From a navy dye to a lighter colour,
Throw out the loose change from my pockets
And leave them empty of all but hope.

Today is Pentecost, the late Spring flowers
Spread across the garden pathways
Hiding the brutal slabs of concrete.
I tip toe carefully between green fronds
Not wishing to crush them beneath my boots.

Today is Pentecost, gusts of wind
Bend my rose trees, rattle the fences,
Lift slates and tiles from my neighbours roofs;
The old world seems to be falling apart
On this very morning of renewal.

I scrub my old coat in the kitchen
Then hang it out on the line to dry.
Today is Pentecost, the morning sun
Burns my face as I look to the skies.
Suddenly I clap my hands and sing.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
31st. May 2020.