Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Washed Out by Rain. (Revised & Completed) (2) ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Washed Out by Rain. (Revised & Completed) (2) ...:                         1 .    Washed Out by Rain. The world is silver grey. Wall paper world. The rain falling steadily, Washing ou...

Satori in the Time of Covid. (Revised)

 A sudden moment of inexplicable joy,

The sky white with light on a cold dull day.

Sad Rooks, vagabonds hunched in skeletal

                                                     trees,

Fretfully cawing:

Shoppers hooded, leaning forward into the

                                                     wind

Unaware of the strange beauty of the sky.

The sudden white light illuminating clouds

Fat with ice crystals.

Ice is grey and black when trapped in clouds.

Sackcloth clouds have dragged in a phoney

                                                  winter,

Three long weeks before the autumn equinox

Roughs up city squares, brown fields and red

                                        brick houses

With a thief`s impunity.

The thief that sneaked in through the hall and

                                                 kitchen

then cleared off fast with my phone and

                                                camera

comes painfully to mind.

My next door neighbour had left the back gate

                                                    open.

My next door neighbour has plenty to answer for.

So how come this short lived moment of real joy?

This shattering joy, inexplicable and astonishing!

The clouds aglow as though lit up by fireflies.

The garden incandescent with red roses.

The morning air quite still, dream heavy, free

                                   of diesel fumes.

Time weighed down with silence - my heart beats

                                     loud and clear.

How come this interaction with Satori?

How come such peace in this year of

                                                   Covid?

When I think things through I cannot find an answer,

I`ll just hunker down and get on with my day.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

September 7th. - 16th. - October 11th. 2020.

A Note for my Diary. (Newly Revised).

A book of Chinese poems on my lap
I sit in the church waiting for the clock to strike.

Today is a day for reading.
Yesterday, a day for skyping
Gave me no space to sit alone and think,
To take off my mask in a quiet and lonely corner.

I wasted many hours on the telephone
Failing to organize an on-line meeting,
But I did find time to write a ten line poem,
Which is something - I suppose.

Now I sit alone in this cold suburban church,

A book of Chinese poems on my lap.

I will have to leave when the clock strikes 2 - I`m told -

Time for prayer is strictly regulated.

I am not at prayer now - just simply being alone.

I pretend the clock aint getting on my nerves.

When the doors are locked I shall stroll into the park

And yell Tu Fu at the sulky Autumn skies.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 15th. - 16th. 2020. - October 11th. 2020.

December 5th. 2020. - October 9th. 2022.

(1) Listening to Scriabin.(New Version) (2) The Wrecker.

Listening to Scriabin. (New Version).


Burdened with sound
The air becomes dark, like the depths of the ocean;
Slow waves moving overhead
Interrogate the sun.

The audience sways gently to the swell and fall
Of the Poem of Ecstasy;
A tight packed shoal tugged and rocked by currents
Stronger than instinct.

This, perhaps is what the Dervish looks for
When he spins and whirls in meditation,
Not transcendence, but quietly physical,
This, perhaps, is the death of reason.

Some think it is better not to be born at all,

Not to be separated from the stillness

That hermits seek among the icy mountains:
Some think it is better not to know such music.

Burdened with sound

The air becomes dark, like the depths of the ocean;

The audience sways gently to the swell and fall 

Of the Poem of Ecstasy.


 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 29th. - 31st. 2020. - September 29th. 2020.
October 12th. 2020.

Developed from a poem sketched 20th. April 2015.

                       *      

             The Wrecker. 


Last night I tossed a stone high in the air,
It has not hit the pond yet,
The surface calm, unruffled,
The moon a perfect picture.

Perhaps if I had skimmed the stone across the stillness,
The ripples would be spreading
Hour upon hour upon hour,
Tearing the picture apart.

If the pond were a crystal plate I would have to smash it,

Smash it to glittering shards,

Moonlight on tremulous water. -

Perfection, for some reason, breaks my heart.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 14th. - 15th. 2020.

September 11th. 2020.

Falling in The Fall
Leaf
        upon leaf
        upon leaf -
The lives of all I have
                          loved
Becoming yesterday -
Becoming next years
                 leaf mould -
Rain scented
          Springtime
                 leaf mould -
Earth from which April
                        Tulips
Shall lift their emptied
                           cups.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
 September 11th. - 12th. 2020.      

Dry Web.

I opened the door of the outside toilet
And was flicked in the face by a spiders web.

Perhaps I am the dream food for arachnids,
Dinner - tea - supper for a hundred years;

No more of hunting for migrant insects,
No more of spinning silk through space.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 6th. 2020.

Dharma Naturalist. (Revised)

Reading Gary Snyder -
Or Gary Snyder reading me -
The simplicity of his poem
Daring me to look
At Quail - at Duck - at basalt cliff face
With an innocent eye,
The eye of a one year infant,
Or the eye of a hare in the wheatfield
Peering acutely
Intently
Ecstatic
But not dreaming - nor guessing - nor
                                                thinking
But as though she were simply a camera
                           Focused on all things,
On the landscape as it happens to be.


If I were a true Zen poet,
As Gary Snyder is a true Zen poet,
The snap of a twig underfoot
Would be heard as the young hare hears it
In the yellow depths of the wheat field -
Hot August - cloud dappled - midday.
But I am not a true Zen poet,
And must study every sight I encounter,
Check facts - take notes - then file them
                                       discreetly away.


Meanwhile - out of sight - not hiding, 

The young hare - attentive - observing,
Watching the world she inherits 

Cool - fleet footed - alert.

Watching the fields and the hill sides 

She is absolutely akin to,

Sister to wind and to rain.
Observing the world night and morning

With the curiosity of a naturalist,

But with no reason to allocate names.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
September 3rd. 2020.

Hares hop - jump great distances - run fluently at great speed.I have tried to incorporate the movements of the Hare in the structure of the poem.