Wilderness Scenes.

 

Woodland Knight

 

Pictures.

 

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Outcasts. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Outcasts. (Revised).: I cannot tap out Morse Code messages, or draw simple patterns in the air with outstretched fingers. My hands are now so wrecked the keyboard...

Lucien`s Horses.

That horse you sketched when you were 8 or 9

In a letter to your father

Is an icon of compassion.

A red horse, deftly drawn,

Shown walking through a field of early tulips.

An equine Buddha in a man made landscape

Somewhere in rural England,

A place where only dreams invoke such beauty.

A gentle Buddha,  his quietness soft as mist

Sanctifying a mild mid April morning.

Through candid, Hawk sharp eyes, you watched that horse

Slowly become a reality on the page,

His body red as the flesh of a wounded dove,

Pain twisting raw fear into abject anger.

Your horse however knows only how to love,

He can even forgive the whip of a frenzied rider

Slashing deep his flank.

This reminds me how at school you slept in the stable

To escape the mob rule of the dormitory.

School was a lonely hell where no one listened, 

But later there would be girls to keep you company

Through empty silences of London nights,

You mentioned them in a matter of fact sort of way

When we larked in the pub, over a stout and a sandwich,

But I noticed your voice was gentle when you talked of horses.

. 

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

July 1st. - 2nd. - 17th. - 30th. 2022.

Heatwave. Completed Illustrated version. (Revised).

Even this hot summer

It seems I am not alone

Hoping for a fresh fall of snow.

Energy prices are due to soar

Before November

Shuts down daylight

Adding deaths and destitution

To boost the seasonal misery toll,

But I still cry out for a fresh fall of snow

The air will then taste sharp and clean,

Especially in the red glow of dawn

Brightly promising new beginnings.

Tonight this heat is a wall of fire.

Oh now I long for a fresh fall of snow.

Trevor  John Karsavin Potter

July 29th.- August 11th. 2022.

Red Bird. (Revised).

My poems are pictures 

painted with words,

and not true poems.

For example -

Aware of the intensity of sunlight

as July approaches

I rejoice that colours now zing off the canvas

hot and vibrant.

Flamenco colours

Shimmering in the sun.

This morning I watched a red bird dive and soar,

Cutting the blue haze with the edges of her wings

that beat with a frenzied fierceness.

I blinked, the sky was empty,

the distant woodlands silent - but

across the blue

a deep wound slowly opened

oozing crimson blood.

I tried to put this vision down on canvas -

with the first paints that came to hand.

Acrylics do not keep their lustre

unlike oils that always seem alive

with an inner light - a fresh vitality.

That red line I slashed across the canvas

is less vibrant now the paint has dried.

Memory is like that line,

it lacks the vivid intensity of moments

lived with red hot violence.

An adolescent kiss.

A quick fire brutal slap

imprinting traces on cheekbone and skin.

A strange red bird

swooping on prey as the dawn breaks. -

My memory of that red bird is debased

dulled by these words that I am typing -

and the picture I have sketched.

But the picture has a reality I can grasp,

Solid as this floor on which I stand.

Words are black and white upon the page.

I love the dangerous energy of colour.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

June 19th. - 20th. - 21st. 2022.

Dedicated to Malcolm Evison. A socialist poet and painter, and a good friend.