Monday, 24 February 2025
Friday, 21 February 2025
Bagatelle. (A Poem).
Perhaps I should write a book of bagatelles,
Scraps and off-cuts from my workshop; for
instance
If I should admit that all the photos- all the
Fleeting memories-the wayward dreams we
share
But have rarely talked about. These and all the
Night long phone calls -can-without a single
Clear exception
In no way substitute for months and years apart.
No, we need not write long screeds packed with
feeling
To shout out loud our loneliness, our griefs;
A single bagatelle-perhaps a word or two-that
is enough
To say all we need to say. - To say it true.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 21st. February 2025.
Tuesday, 18 February 2025
Monday, 10 February 2025
Moonlight Camden Town / (Completed 26/02/2026).
The swiftly jostling crowds are all strangers.
I walk slowly through the mulch
Eyes tracking my footsteps because the path is uneven.
I am mourning Marianne but cannot share my memories
With crowds of folk I have never seen before,
And without a doubt, will never see again.
My past is simply my past - that is all that can be to it,
& my today also.
I am merely a downcast face in the winter throng -
But far away, far beyond the traders in the market.
Far beyond the shoppers and so nearly out of sight,
I can see a lonely girl dressed in grey and white,
An Ophelia - mod and magical - only I in this crowd can
see.
She is standing at the top of the steps we once climbed up
to the Roundhouse.
Her arms are spread wide. Her greeting, as always, kindly.
"Beer or coffee"? She whispers into her sleeve.
We frantically rush to the pub before the lights are turned low.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter. February 11th. - 12th. 2025.
Revised February 15th = 26th, 2026.
Saturday, 8 February 2025
Thursday, 6 February 2025
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Silver white and black images on the screen. We translate them back into the reality that memory proposes Transforming the silver into sever...
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Buying incense by moonlight - The swiftly jostling crowds are all strangers. I walk slowly through the mulch Eyes tracking my footsteps beca...
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Lost in the debris of secular life The Holy Fool wears a mitre But cannot tell you why. I am not a priest, I am not a prophet; I have never ...















