Trevor J Potter's Art: Epiphany. (Completed Version)

Trevor J Potter's Art: Epiphany. (Completed Version): We don`t know how many wise men came. Three, six, twelve? Twelve would make sense, The same number as Christ`s apostles, And this the A...

Sospiri. Completed Version)

Listening to rain 

after the lotus has withered.

Tears falling onto the broad 

                                     lake

I place my phone on top of this book of Zen poems -

Impermanence is what counts in the world today

If the rain is beating time

Upon your bedroom window

Please scratch our names

in the glass

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

January 4th. - February 4th. 2021.

 

Fujikawa in Winter.

The artist observed that snow is not white,

That colours evolve from minute to minute,

Dissolve then reappear muted, washed out,

As midday clarity drifts into afternoon paleness,

The faded textures of midwinter daylight.

The chill cuts deep, stiletto edged, cruel;

Snow soaking long cloaks and seeping through

                                                       boots.

Villagers trudge warily into the mountains,

Hats pressed over eyes, hands hidden in sleeves.

The one tall tree, the houses, the people,

Sparingly sketched by the artists quick hand.

Silence is tangible, chill heavy, weary,

A hidden presence saturating the depths

Of this view of Fujikawa locked hard into winter. -

If Hiroshige had sketched a single bird on the tree

Then the whole scene would have been glittering

                                                              with music.

As it is, silence is key to the truth of this picture;

A silence I can see, I can hear, I can touch.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

3rd. January 2021.

 From a print by Hiroshige. Poem Number One. The month of January.

My Home Is Europe. (ReWritten Poem)

Once upon a time I had a dream. 

I dreamed Europe was a single country, 

No borders to cross, 

No passports needed, 

Every European an equal citizen,

Whatever their ethnicity or religion.

Now my little England has smashed this dream,

Broken it to bits as if it had no worth,

Trashed family ties, embraced exceptionalism,

The vain belief that this small island nation 

Is extra smart and can out class the rest.

A racist scam that rips my guts with shame. 

Last night I chucked my Passport in the bin 

Because I felt just like a stateless child,

A refugee washed up on Dover Beach 

Confronted by a mob of hostile faces,

A barbed wire fence,

Huge guard dogs straining at their leashes.

Their handlers screamed out incoherent orders,

Torches flashing; handcuffs clipped to belts.

In spite of this I have not ditched my dream.

I must be patient, yet ready to speak true.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

December 30th. 2020. - January 1st. 2021

This complete Re-Write, October 6th. - 7th. 2021.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Impressions on a Winters Night.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Impressions on a Winters Night.: Sat and watched The Silence As though it were truly silent; Not a word heard, Lips moving on a ventriloquist`s face, Masks etched deep...

Sleeping Beauty in Barnet. - A Story for Twelfth Night. (Newly Completed, Twelfth Night 2022.).

The Edwardian villa across from my semi

Slowly decays behind a hedge of thorns.

Perhaps a sad princess has pricked her finger

And awaits Prince Mojo  - armed with a 

                                                  rock star kiss -

To wake her from long years of solitude.

Or perhaps the house high hedge is make-believe,

A taffeta curtain - a trick of the evening light,

Protecting secret rooms from prying eyes,

From infection and the local thought police.

A smashed computer, a toilet, a broken spindle

Lie on the pavement outside the silent house.

When a light is on in a room assumed to be empty

An intricate web of folk tales wakes up phones

Vibrating on armchairs - in bags - in jacket pockets -

On the tumbled sheets of many a post party bed.

When the light goes out the web shivers and snaps,

Littering gossip columns with spectral spiders.

"These are weird times", my neighbour wryly remarks,

Her old face wizened behind a surgical mask.

Muttering words deep into her fur trimmed sleeve

Cinders in blue jeans pushing an empty pram

Occasionally enters the house behind the hedge,

Locking the door behind her with a slam.

Perhaps she serves the sleeping Princess Aurora.

She also awaits Prince Mojo - his rock star kiss -

His six foot broad sword - his electricians manual -

His tracts on plumbing - woodwork - natal care -

Prized gifts to turn on every light in the house -

          to sweep the dust out of the nursery window. -

Like Snow White at the wishing well, Cinders believes in 

                                                                 handsome heroes,

Prince Mojo  - on his Yamaha - changing thorns to flowers.

When he comes the hedge will shrink down to his height,

And a midwife will lodge for years upon the sofa. -

No more impounded by cops - sawn up and burned -

Spinning Wheels will recommence spinning, just by 

                                                                    themselves.

Dogs will cease their barking at priests and postmen.

Cats will stare yearning into the face of the moon.

Then I may sleep soundly, calm and snug in my bed,

That Edwardian villa no longer spooking my dreams.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 26th. - 27th. - 28th. 2020. - January 1st. - July 8th. 2021.

Completed January 5th. 2022, Twelfth Night.

In one version of Sleeping Beauty the Princess Aurora has several babies.

Two Poems. (1) Light and Shadow. (2) The Gift.

A vision of chiaroscuro

The lilt of your voice down the telephone

Describing a June sunrise

I listen to your words and imagine

Spring sunlight filtered by new leaves

Flickering through your hair

You wanted to make love by the lakeside

But too many strangers were passing

And we were too much in the light

Now the phone is our only direct link

- Apart - that is - from telepathy -

To keep us in touch through the winter

- You seem so distant - yet with me -

Words fade more quickly than visuals

From my incomplete backlog of memory

Just a few pert comments remain

Photographs have been claimed to be factual

But they are merely flat shapes on a surface

They are static - a likeness is just an illusion

Photographs are the language of stillness

They can never convey your vitality

Nor your living presence beside me

Emerging from sleep in the dawn

A vision of chiaroscuro

The lilt of your voice down the telephone

Describing a June sunrise

Trevor John Karsavin Potter

December 13th. - 14th. - 16th. 2020.

This poem can be read as a Round,

                           *

                    The Gift.

The piece of clear rock crystal that I gave you

With your Christmas Card and the letter sealed

                                       and marked as Private

Is a token of fidelity -

Something for you alone

Keep it safe

Nothing else that I have had the chance to give 

                                                                     you 

Has such an ancient history 

Or a future half as long -

This crystal will survive all we can know

It holds no secrets - it shows the facts like any 

                                                  bedside mirror -

It has no magic - only fools think that -

But the truth it shows is deep within us both -

It is the clarity that love gives to our living

When we stand face to face - honest and without 

                                                                        fear.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 21st. 2020.