Art, I am told, is fabulously useless.

Art, I am told, is fabulously useless,

A commodity beyond quick comprehension,

Yet fattening the purses of the wise.

I can hear God in the cool voice of the cello,

The anguish of a Sinti violin

Played by a refugee to earn some bread.

Profit and loss disrupt the music scene.

Art becomes holy when we truly love it,

Heals the anguished heart, the broken mind,

Makes dreams come true, if only for a minute.

Life without art is sterile and unkind.

Art is love expressed in song and Ikons.

 

I watched the towers of Rouen fade in rain,

Transformed into stone clouds above the city,

Losing solid mass, yet retaining their perfection,

Silent prayers merging with the storm.

Prayer is a type of art, a spiritual outpouring

Expressed in words, in paint, in Cathedral spires

Writing silent music on the sky.

Art is in the kiss a mother gives

With true compassion to her weeping child.

Art is not artifice, it does not hide the truth

Behind a glittering face mask of conceit

That will soon be packed away when fashions alter.

Art has no time limit. It has our generous love

That does not change although our hair turns grey.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

June 19th. - 22nd. 2021.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Holy Feast, Launcelot Andrewes, Southwark Cath...

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Holy Feast, Launcelot Andrewes, Southwark Cath...: Our saint`s tomb is buried in autumn flowers cut down at dawn, the dew still fresh on them, but soon to lose their colour, shape and scen...

Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden. (New Version).

I sat and dreamed in the lee of the chapel,

Sat and studied the herbs that now grow there

To create a metaphor of the resurrection,

Vivid new growth between worn stones.

"My head is like a sieve", the old woman cried;

As she sat down next to me on the low wall.

"Pour words into my ears, they fall straight off my lips,

Then evaporate into the Sunday air".

"But nothing is really lost", I thought as I sat silent

Studying the herbs and heaps of old stones;

"I can see the outline of the Bishop`s Chapel

Etched in the earth like a buried ship".

I would like to haul that ship out of the soil,

Set up the mast, a spire slashed from young oak,

Swing on the ropes and climb sky high

To fix a cross between wind riven clouds.

Pre reformation England haunts this place,

But the traffic gridlocked on London Bridge

Shakes the ground deeper than thundering bells,

Cathedral bells that call the people to Mass.

What sort of resurrection is implied

By these herbs that mark the wreck of the chapel?

Perhaps the interface of spring with winter

Where Launcelot Andrews was laid to rest?

"The garden is now closed", the old woman whimpered.

It seems that even she still keeps the hours

That drive this city to the edge of distraction

Grinding all quietness right out of our minds.

The Ship of Faith I sculpted in my imagination

As I mourned the loss of the Bishop`s Chapel?

Oh I wish I could sail that ship to a gentle land

And there recover the solace of Eden.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

August 28th. 2016. - February 14th. 2017. - June 11th. 2021.

The herb garden is situated at the east end of Southwark Cathedral, on a narrow strip of land between the cathedral and the southern end of London Bridge. The Bishop`s Chapel was demolished in the 1830`s when the 19th. century version of London Bridge was built, just to the west of the famouse medieval structure. The tomb of Bishop Launcelot Andrews was moved into the choir of the cathedral, where he is honoured as a saint.  The quirky remarks of the elderly lady were made to me one Sunday afternoon after Mass. As a catholic who loves and greatly admires the C of E I adore this place.

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.