London is a Forest, Stop and Look.(A Sort of Fairy Tale).

We have not left the wild woods,

we islanders.

London is a forest full of urban foxes

pitter - pattering between the houses

late at night.

And trees are everywhere in this city,

Gentle gods granting shopping malls and

civic centres

permission to exist -

Permission to fill up the glades and copses

with hotels and condominiums - with flashy

                                                   multiplexes -

& sombre public schools.

But when, in one sad rush, like flocks of swallows,

Citizens load their cars with bags and boxes

packed with bits and bobs they think important -

passports in top pockets -

Euros in hot hands. -

(All jobs lost. - All contracts binned and burned.) -

Storms will tug at leaves - splinter ancient branches

                                        above convoys of vehicles

retreating from these streets of broken dreams.

Most people gone,

                           wild bracken and blackberries,

sturdy oaks, moss and weeping willows,

will soon break through the rows of red brick 

                                                             houses,

leaving just a darkening in the subsoil,

a shadow like that of a Roman Polis.

Then curious foxes - feral -  deadly - graceful,

will find a peace their forbears never knew,

And soaring high above the dying city

Skylarks view a jungle      without end.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

January 17th. - 18th. - 21st. - 22nd.- 23rd. 2021.

On the radio this morning the novelist Nadifa Mohamed remarked, "London is a forest", referencing the vast number of trees in the capitol. Within minutes I started to write this poem, living as I do, in a suburb rich in trees. I then recalled that the last time Britain broke radically with Europe at the fall of the Roman Empire, Londinium reverted to nature until King Alfred the Great, a true European, restored the city. The gamekeepers were living in the new woodlands because mankind always thinks it is in control of nature, which of course will never be true. Poetry must always have a sense of fun however serious the subject may be.             

Media Magic Blues.

Mozart on the radio.

The Abduction from the Seraglio.

"Too many notes?" - Perhaps?

I sit in a very different country,

A very different time zone -

A lamp - a chair - a worktop -

A pile of A4 paper. -

A computer too big for my kitchen table.

Too many hours to scuff my shoes and doodle?

Too many hours? - Perhaps?

This room must be my whole world until April;

No Sultan - no eunuch guard - no volatile soprano -

To share my space,

To keep me company.

Their voices coming at me from the radio

Sing of exotic dreams that are not mine.

Deep January 2021, the night wind bitter,

Almost as cold as eighteenth century Vienna,

The courts ice black, - the gutters dripping snow,

Dogs barking somewhere for some wintry reason. -

Mode a la Turka popular this season,

A singspiel, put on in a freezing theatre,

Tells of sultry nights where east meets west,

Of kisses dipped in cyanide - and honey.

Now I am old such stories make no sense,

My dreams are simpler - all private to myself. -

I dream of friends I knew when I was twenty,

But the threshold is not cleared, and so we

                                                    cannot meet. 

Mozart on the radio.

The Abduction from the Seraglio.

"Too many notes? - Perhaps - perhaps - perhaps.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

January 9th. - 10th. 2021.

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...