Trevor Through the Looking Glass. (Rewritten Poem).

Levitation was never a part of my lifestyle,

but this morning, without due effort,

                           without an act of will,

I found myself up on the mantlepiece

floating, just like Alice, through the mirror,

parting the malleable glass with my fingers

as though it were a fog

                                   or a skein of silk,

falling apart as I touched it.

"Where have you been?" My puzzled friends chivied.

We were sauntering down Carnaby Street

on a cold mid winter evening,

strolling through crowds of fashionable London girls.

"To the future," I replied.

"I have visited the 21st. Century

where today is just a legend,

The Beatles analogue history,

and this street a commercial byway

packed with histrionic tourists,

                                           and deserted by The Scene."

They looked at me and scoffed,

                                   "Trevor is always full of stories,"

and so we entered the smoke filled pub

heaving with mods and would be actors.

Weekend models looking for an agent.

                       Con artists by the score.

The chatter degraded into white noise.

Smoke thickened, becoming an opaque glass

through which I drifted blindly, unable to stop the clock.

"The Nineteen Sixties were fine," I whispered to myself.

"Back then we were imaginative and hopeful,

scheming a low tech revolution, a brand new Peacenik age.

A time to love and share, to reaffirm The Levelers, their 

                                                                 self sufficiency.

A time to magic war zones into gardens;

to plant white poppies down the throats of guns.

I stared far into the mirror,

took note of the flaws, the scratches, the film of grubby motes,

the smudges from my fingers.

"Who is that old man looking back at me?

He looks so tired and wistful. Does he have a tale to tell?

Or is this just the trick of a lonesome mind?"

For a second the image was young and wild once more.

It giggled - then puffed a cloud of smoke in my face.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

March 2rd. - 5th. - Aug 25th. 2016. - February 16th. - 17th. 2021.

For all those friends I can no longer meet.

Naruto Whirlpool. (Revised)

This is a great place for ship wrecks.

The basalt rocks - gnarled broken teeth

Snap at the salty spume with a sharks

                                                ferocity,

Yet catch on nothing airborne, nothing

                                                 fleeting,

Never deflecting the flight, the darting 

                                            cavalcades

Of soaring - diving gulls,

Those living knives slicing through the

                                                   waves..

But slow sailing ships are always easy prey,

Especially the overladen western galleons

Trading guns for silk - gold for porcelain;

And, according to the records, opioids.

These rocks are the islands secret weaponry,

Lurking pods of static submarines,

Waves clawing at their towers, whipping up

                                         whirlpools

Between the anchored keels.

Meanwhile, in his snow white inland castle,

The Shogun writes a poem about plum blossom,

Delicate as a torn wing - ephemeral as the spray.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

14th. - 18th. February 2021.

Hiroshige Prints, poem Number Three. The month of March.

Thinking back to my poem for November 2019, poetry is what the fisherman sees below the surface of the sea, what we call reality is what happens above the surface.

From My Bedroom Window. (Completed Poem.).

A girl in a white shift hurries down the hill.

An urban fox scurries in the opposite direction.

A chill electric moon, blue becoming yellow,

                                                          then white,

As clouds fly over the surface of the stone.

The fox is grubby and grey, hardly a trace of red.

The silence is tangible - icy - hard - immovable,

A door through which only the dying pass.

The street lamps seem to wash away real colour,

                          fade the trees into flimsy ghosts.

This scene outside my first floor bedroom window

Reminds me of a film that has no sound.

I stand stock still.

I must fix the scene with plain words, not snapped

                                                                 photos,

Fix the moment with black lines scrawled on paper.

I think of the people snoring in their warm beds,

Snuggled up safe and sound while I keep watch,

They will never quite believe what I am writing.

I am far too tired to rest, in thrall to the dark night,

To the realities that the bright sun cannot show us.

The white stone moon drifts like a surrogate god

Through deep immensities of unappeasable space.

When alarm clocks clang, this street will be dull, but

                                                                           homely.

The girl will snack on her corn flakes. The fox will be 

                                                     dreaming fox dreams.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

January 12th. - 13th. - February 7th. - 8th. - July 24th. 2021.

This is direct reporting of a scene I saw from my first floor bedroom window. The night was very cold but the girl was dressed only in a white slip. A scraggy fox passed warily by. The street lighting seemed to wash out the colours from the scene, except from the moon which seemed to be made up of three distinct, but very pale colours. I assume the girl ate cornflakes for breakfast.

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

Trevor J Potter's Art: Sospiri. Completed Version): Listening to rain  after the lotus has withered. Tears falling onto the broad                                       lake I place my phone on...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Dreaming of Japan.(Rewritten Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Dreaming of Japan.(Rewritten Poem).: It must really be autumn. I am watching films about Japan. I wish I could add wings to the roof of my house And fly there, Over the mou...

February Evening, The Revellers Returned. (Revised).

The cat turns her back on the painted birds,

They cannot entice her.

She stares satirically out of the high window

Looking for something meaningful to hunt,

Raw meat for her table.

The fields far below her growing dark,

The crowds that peopled them an hour ago

Have wandered home in drunken disarray

Seeking an early night.

The cat looks down for tit bits in the grass,

Perhaps a rodent, careless and overweight.

Someone has hung a cloth from the window

                                                              ledge,

A blue and white cloth placed next to a blue

                                              and white bowl.

A batch of scrolls have been dropped upon the

                                                               floor,

Flowers have been placed upon them.

The pictures of birds are white, or grey and white.

The cat resides in a reality all of her own,

A reality that only a Zen Monk could understand.

The evening sun has set the clouds on fire.

Mount Fuji, blue as the morning, stands quiet

                                         and unimpressed;

Real birds flying over the summit,

                                 Swiftly out of the picture.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

1st. - 7th. February 2021.

From a print by Hiroshige, Poem Number Two. The month of March.

As We Appear. (A Lyric).

I had never thought this before

Not before you said it

That I am a part of the landscape

Just like the squat church tower

The trees in the Cottage Meadow

The crowded supermarkets

I have always been an observer

A flesh and blood Praktica

A director not in the picture

A presence behind the scenes

But then when you got up and said it

At the life achievement awards

I was out of myself looking down

From somewhere close to the ceiling

At an old man sat in the front row

In a crowd of much younger people

An observer observed seems absurd

He appears not just part of the landscape

But entirely integral to it

While not being sure why he is

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

 30th. January 2021.