Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Vision on a Snowbound Sunday.(New Completed Ve...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) Vision on a Snowbound Sunday.(New Completed Ve...:                   1. A Vision on a Snow Bound Sunday. (New Completed Version). Jesus walked alone in the wilderness. The foxes clappe...

Goka no Sho, Higo Province.

Blue mountain.

Sky the colour of peaches

ripe on the bough.

The man, crossing the chasm

on a fallen log

that spans great echoing depths,

sees only his fear.

The beauty that surrounds him is simply illusion.

His concern is every footstep that he takes,

edging forward on the tilt of the log

high above fierce torrents.

He climbs up through a canopy of wild trees

that cling tight to the rock face.

Standing outside the frame

I observe the whole of the picture

noting its beauty,

the sense of peace that it gives me.

I cannot hear the thunder of the melt streams

hidden by white cloud,

but their presence is made known to me by the terror

in the eyes of the travelling man.

The stick on his hunched shoulder is so overladen

that he is forced to stoop as he walks,

almost losing his balance.

He would rather be at home with his wife and children

than trudging this path alone.

When I was young I struggled just like this poor man.

Now I am old I write him into this poem.

Trevor Joh Karsavin Potter.

15th. May 2021.

Poem No. 6, for the month of June, in the Hiroshige Calendar Prints Series.

The Robins Nest. (Revised).

 There, lodged between the church door

And the wooden door handle,

Deep in the narrow dark, the hand deep

                                                     chasm,

Protected from the rain by the entrance

                                                     porch,

Was the neatest of robins nests,

So neat and tidy it should have won prizes,

Or at least a brief mention

In a house-care magazine.

I peered into the narrow dark, marvelling

                                                  how small

And cramped a living quarters

This family of robins required to feel at home.

No thing out of order, each twig slotted into

                                                              place,

All things plain and useful, no thing overdone.

Saint Francis would have approved of such 

                                                        frugality,

Remarking how safe and warm this fragile

                                                           nest is,

Discretely out of view in a public space.

A well kept home, snug behind the door 

                                                     handle

Of a quiet suburban church.

And now, as I sit at my desk, writing this

                                                         poem,

I wonder why I need eight rooms and a loft

To feel at ease in;

The front door chained and bolted, the windows

                                            always locked.

 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

May 6th. - 11th. 2021.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Sophie. ( Born a century ago today, May 9th. 1921)

Trevor J Potter's Art: Sophie. ( Born a century ago today, May 9th. 1921): I press the key. A face I do not recognise lights up the screen. A girl with candid eyes, High chubby cheeks,                          ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Seventeen 2020.(Completed Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Seventeen 2020.(Completed Poem).: I notice you are now in high heels. Tall as a flamingo. Frightening the boys. You zap their self confidence with a laugh. When I was youn...

Plum Garden of Kamata. (Rejected Version).

Old labourers deep in prayer.

Chores over until the morrow.

Broken hands with stunted fingures

Clasped together desperately.

Pollarded fruit trees reaching high,

Branches cut back with precision

To stimulate new growth and blossom,

The sky the colour of ripening cherries.

Two girls dressed in warm kimonos

Stand beside a turquoise lake.

They stand quite still, listening to silence

Ebb and flow through the stillness.

The chill air of an April evening

Tainted with a scent of frost

Has filled thatched homes with yellow light.

Candles burn behind closed windows.

As secret as the quiet interiors

Of these houses by the lake,

The labourers pray beyond the limits

Of this beauty their work has made.

The artist, printing on fine paper

The delicate textures of this scene,

Thinks only of the plum tree blossoms

As he deftly grades the inks.

He also is outside the limits

Of this scene he replicates.

The two girls standing by the lake

Break the silence with a laugh.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

May 2nd. 2021.

Friday Night Blessings.

The flowers in my garden are watered by beer.

Cans and bottles thrown over the garden wall

By revellers on Friday nights.

They shout and fight, but rarely for more than

                                                              an hour.

I thank you good neighbours for the blessings

You have bestowed.

Forget-Me-Nots flourish where the tipple has fallen

In spits and splashes, often in the early light,

And my roses are not offended by Special Brew,

Although the cans attract both snails and slugs.

Unexpected pleasures are often the most loved,

And your noisy addictions have brought a scenario

                                                                   of beauty

I could not have planned myself.

Wild flowers root deep where your litter has fallen,

And soon the bees and butterflies appear,

But I still do not appreciate clearing your mess.

Your beer is welcome, but as to your cans and bottles,

Please take them home before the moon has set.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

April 30th. 2021.