The Gardener. (Newly Completed Poem).

Blue Hyacinth for Mr. Thompson,

Dying last night while the north wind

                                                swirled

            in shrieking fits

That shattered the lattice porch

          beneath his window. 

A pompous man who, as Advent neared,

Sprinkled wine and words over seed trays

                 to invoke his dream of April.

And then, on Christmas Eve,

His chubby fingers working overtime,

Stuffed spring bulbs into treacle tins

To give to friend and neighbour.

Springtime was always on his mind

However bleak the winter;

And tinsel hung on plastic trees

Simply not his style.

Blue Hyacinth for Mr. Thompson.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

February 4th. 1963 - June 18th. - 29th. 2023.

Three Pictures.

 

Becoming The Ghost of Hamlet`s Father, (Revised and Rewritten).

The instant I stepped onto the stage 

I seemed to enter transparent realities

I have not been conscious of since a child.

Then my mind was new and clear and

                                          mirror like,

Reflecting all things;

Becoming all things.

At first I had thought to burlesque my 

                                                     part,

But found I could not do it,

In fact, the instant I stepped onto that

                                     darkened stage,

I became the anguish deep in Hamlet`s

                                                    father,

And his strong baritone began to cloud

                                                my tenor

In a way that was so true it was not art.

Although my eyes were fixed upon the 

                                                      script

Because I had not yet mastered my part

I did not recognise the voice that spoke.

It seemed to sound in a far away dimension

That I was separate from, but also linked to,

Somewhere I did not dream but was not now.

I had entered a space adrift in many worlds,

And yet my feet stood firm upon the stage.

But the moment the scene ended I was back  

                                              in my daily life,

An out of touch old actor exiled to the 

                                                            wings.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

June 5th, - 6th - 20th. 2023.

The Kenwood Vermeer. (Revised).

The girl with a guitar is looking

Into a reality we cannot see.

She is smiling with child like grace

As if sharing a dare devil secret

With a friend and confidant,

Someone of her inner circle

Who is awkwardly in the know.

Or perhaps He has quietly entered,

His hat dropped down on the table;

Her letters tucked into His glove. -

Side lined from the picture, yet attentive to her music,

He awaits that deliberate silence 

Designed to be broken by complements.

Or maybe he`s an image in her mind,

A dream mate far away

In a distant part of the country.

She imagines him planning a piratical deed.

He will come a tip toeing late at night

Along the hallway that leads to her chamber,

The door key deep in his pocket.

These are the thoughts that spark through my brain

As I study this painting in Kenwood House

Of a girl alone in a curtained room

Wistfully strumming as shadows deepen.

But Vermeer transcends our conventional seeing

With ethereal brushstrokes and a clear wise eye.

If I could ask him why he painted this picture

He would probably just smile, then turn away.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

June 2nd.- September 21st. 2023.

More New Abstracts.

 

Colours and Contrasts.