Fallen Angels Poem No. 1 - The Eagle. (Revised)

My feet are like claws

I could cling to the crags

Eagle like

Observing my life

And yours

Arthritis has not yet crippled me

But it is time I quit the higher ground

Built a new nest in a secret valley

A secluded spot for you

And me

Soar eagle soar

Now reach for the clouds

On sensitive wings

An angel would envy

 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

June 29th. - July 5th. - July 16th. 2021.

This first poem now dovetails easily into the second, (published on June 29th.), and the two should be read together.

Fallen Angels Poem No.2 - Transcendent Song. (Revised)

You always remark

I fell from the stars

The day that we met

Angels must gather

Where true love is found

Purer than words can explain

You could give me such love

If you truly dared

But safety first is your game

Your ego has snapped

Your Angel wings

And left you alone in the dark

The stars I fell with are in my hands

Trust love - then soar like the Lark

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

June 29th. 2021. - July 5th.

Fallen Angels Poem 1 is very different. I am holding it back for now.

Lost Tears.

If I could recover all the tears I have lost

I would become a lake wider than Windermere,

Deeper than the depths of wild Loch Ness,

Or the ocean due west of Sligo Bay.

And all the islands would be misty with ghosts,

The whispering ghosts of friends and lovers

Long decades out of touch.

But tears once shed cannot be recovered,

They evaporate like prayers in the morning light

When the candles are snuffed and the altar is cleared

And the church is locked up for the day.

Tears are sacred, that is why we hide them

 From neighbours and strangers passing our way,

Pale shadows in the rain.

Their healing words are just background noise

When we want to rage at the sun.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

June 26th. 2021.

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.