Good Friday in a Time of War. (Completed Poem).

Good Friday is not good,

It is hopelessness,

Desolation,

All the cities that have ever burned

Still burning,

Every child that was ever slaughtered

Still feeling the thrust of the knife,

The heat of the bullet,

The raw edge of the rope.

Good Friday is every crime ever committed,

Every murder,

Every rape, 

Every act of genocidal war;

And still the rockets pour down molten rain.

And still the victims crouch beneath the earth. -

All this expressed in savage hammer blows

That forced the nails through the opened hands

Of the healer,

The charismatic Lord of Life.

He forgave all those he healed with love

Because he knew their thoughts, their hopes, their fears.

He knew that they would turn their backs on him

When he was stretched wide screaming on the cross,

Crucified because he spoke the truth,

Because he cured the blind -

The halt - the dumb - the deaf - the epileptic, -

Because he woke the dead;

And still the victims crouch in catacombs and bunkers.

Good Friday is not good,

It is a blasphemy against all things,

Against the child nestling in the womb,

Against the beauty of the universe,

Against every tiny deed of love,

Against every mother`s smile and kiss.

Eli, Eli lama sabachthani?

And still the rockets pour down molten rain.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

15th. - 16th. April 2022.

Palm Sunday - Self Isolation.

A box of tulips delivered to my door.

I cut the string then lift the lid;

A cold sunrise has filled the house with light.

I`ve placed a palm cross by the kitchen window;

Easter is now just a week away.

This gift was not expected, and every bloom is red.

I drop the stems into a crystal vase.

The house so quiet I hear the shadows move,

Or is that just my breath?- I rarely note my breathing.

Resolved to live alone I have become self conscious,

Every hour seems packed with mystery,

A miracle no longer an exception.

These tulips are five wounds, I sought a different gift,

Five Easter lilies ice bright in the sun.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

10th. April `2022.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Starlight Love Poem.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Starlight Love Poem.: This love I offer is not an empty token. Cuddle up close against the winter night. We are the same material as the stars & should no...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Movie Time Memories.(Revised and newly Completed V...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Movie Time Memories.(Revised and newly Completed V...: The colour movies really choke me up, They seemed so cutting edged, so packed with truths, So real and to the point, when we first saw them ...

Movie Time Memories.(Revised and newly Completed Version).

The colour movies really choke me up,

They seemed so cutting edged, so packed with truths,

So real and to the point, when we first saw them

In the studio

Just a week or two after the wrap up date.

Now, half a century on, they look washed out, surreal,

Fading enigmas from a bygone age

Soaked in the yellow haze of fantasy and fiction.

We lived our lives in that world before it faded

Into legend,

A lost planet, further out than Mars - Andromeda`s

Wheels of fortune -

Where once we danced - made love in secret - ran laughing

Through Hyde Park,

The songs of Cohen and Dylan shaping the ways we thought,

Ginsberg in our duffle bags - sunflowers on our minds.

That was our year of love as we lived it, not how the films portray,

Their imagery bleached by time into a blur.

You were the flower child who sang like an angel.

I was the boy with a camera who talked for hours.

But to know you now as you were then, I simply close my eyes, 

And ignore the faulty images that the plasma screens display.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

27th. - 31st. March  - April 1st. 2022.

Nostalgia.(Completed)

Nostalgia kills.

I have spent all week dreaming of the past,

Of friends, who when I look at photographs,

Or movie clips in black and white,

Remind me of the boy I used to be

Before advancing age, debts, and the deaths of loved ones,

Restricted the horizons I can see.

My God, that girl was lovelier than the smile

On the caring face of a Florentine Madonna

Painted as the Quattrocento dawned.

Yet she was fiercely modern, just look into her eyes

As she sings into a static microphone

Spotlit harshly on the studio floor.

But the cameras could not read her as I knew her,

She was my mate, we often sat together

In the snug bar of our pub, unnoticed by the heaving

                                                       throng of drinkers.

Unnoticed there, but cheered by crowds all venues that she toured

In Britain, mainland Europe, the USA,

A star and yet so little understood.

Back home in London, cooking Guinness Curry

In the tiny kitchen of my parent`s flat,

We played mind games, and talked in endless riddles

To spin Cats Cradles of Looking Glass ideas

That danced, like glitter, in the air between us.

Our youth now lives intensely in our memories,

No photograph, no clips from TV programmes

Can match the vivid free shows in our minds,

Dream pictures I now see while writing out this poem.

I turn the radio dial. Music has moved on as music must,

I now rarely know the names of bands and singers,

Except those that dominate the news headlines,

My taste is firmly fixed in the nineteen sixties.

Events pass by and soon could be forgotten.-

Too many birthdays.- Too many broken vows.

My friend still sings. Her songs are darker now,

But the wit that sparks her eyes is just the same.

 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

March 26th. - 30th. - April 24th. 2022.

Trevor J Potter's Art: First Meeting.

Trevor J Potter's Art: First Meeting.: Stunned by the sweetness of your smile My so obsessive rushing to and fro Has instantly become irrelevant. We are standing still, apart,...