The Visitation. (Completed Poem)

Today, on the feast of The Visitation,

A pastel blue butterfly flew into my garden

And alighted on a branch

Of the wild white rose.

I stood quietly watching, afraid to move

In case I disturbed the sudden peace

That this creature had found

In my miniature garden

Just a breath away from the street outside.

The butterfly, riding the cusp of the wind,

Glided over the wall from the busy highway

Into a living space, so different from

The tarmac desert littered with traffic,

It seemed another country.

I had never seen before such a pastel blue butterfly

In the walled seclusion

Of my North London garden,

So I stood and watched without saying a word.

I stood and watched, my camera unused,

The lens too slow to catch an image

Of a creature weaving between the branches

Of a disorderly briar rose.

And I was thinking, as I stood as still as a rock,

That the sky pale colour of these butterfly wings,

Is a similar blue to the cloak of The Virgin

As depicted in ancient frescoes and icons.

Today is the Feast of The Visitation,

And it seems that this morning I have received a guest

Into the sanctuary of my garden,

A stranger bearing good news.

Her wings, balancing fine patterns on the morning air,

Shape delicate dances of praise.

 Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

May  31st. - June 1st. - 3rd.2021.

Bouncing Along in my New Shoes.

Bouncing along in my new shoes

I am deftly walking on air 

Knowing that I will meet you at the ceilidh tonight

Among the loud voices,

Your greeting smile broader than windows

In the open house of my heart.

I will be holding you to that clear promise

You made in Derry last winter

As we sauntered down by the Foyle,

Snowflakes damping our hair.

Real love is more than honest,

It can be a brutal emotion,

Wrecking the souls it has lost.

Our lives will be trashed if we do not answer its call.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

May 27th. 2021.

Abelard and Heloise were right. (Alternative Version.).

 Abelard and Heloise were right.

Defying the wrath of Fulbert they confirmed

That love is more honest than common sense,

More absolute than social does and don`ts.

By breaking custom they made clear the truth.

Free as a bird my love for you transcends

Sly innuendos leaked from timid minds

Afraid to overturn the status quo.

Meanwhile we dance together in the spotlight,

Castanets crackle fiercely as we circle

Slowly face to face, foreheads locked together,

Flamenco in our hearts.

A crowd shouts out our names as we embrace the music,

The quick fire clash of heals on courtyard stones.

She is a Roma Gypsy and he a retired clerk,

And old enough to be her Da - I think.

They are two fools together.

But thinking has no part in real life stories,

The cohabiting of folk from different classes,

Of different generations and ethnic make up,

The realist and the prophet.

Old age is not a hindrance, but can be made a blight

Deep in the soul caused by ignorant talk,

The need to make our grandparents lie low,

Keep their proper places.

Ageism is self hatred. - Racism? Just plain mad,

& social climbing? A stupid game for kids.

Our love for each other breaks down walls and shackles

Devised to keep the status quo intact.

Abelard and Heloise were right,

(Although no pope has ranked them with the saints.

Although the wounds they bore are sacred to true lovers)

Its the kindnesses we share that last a lifetime,

They sanctify the fellowship of true minds.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

May 20th. - 21st. - 27th. - 29th.  2021.

Plum Garden of Kamata.(Prefered Version)..

Red and white taffeta snow

Litters the mown lawn.

The two girls standing by the lake

Talk of who they used to be

Before the leaves fell,

The flowers shrunk to nothing.

Looking into the lake they note how

Their faces shatter when the wind sighs.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

May 24th. 2021.

Poem No.5 The month of May, Hiroshige prints on my 2021 Calendar.

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.