Wednesday, 31 August 2016
Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) January 31st. (New Version). (2) Harrow Weald...
Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) January 31st. (New Version). (2) Harrow Weald...: 1 . January 31st. Already it is the last day of the month, the New Year stacked with sc...
Monday, 29 August 2016
Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Dream poems. (1) Random Thoughts in the Herb G...
Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Dream poems. (1) Random Thoughts in the Herb G...: 1 . Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral. I went and dreamed in my memory of the chapel, ...
Sunday, 28 August 2016
Two Dream poems. (1) Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral. (2) Rogue Doorbell. (Revised)
1.
Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral.
I went and dreamed in my memory of the chapel,
sat and studied the herbs that now grow there
to create a metaphor of the resurrection,
vivid new growth amongst the broken stones.
"My head is like a sieve", the old woman cried;
"pour words into my ears they fall straight off my lips
then evaporate into the empty air".
"But nothing is really lost", I thought as I sat there
amongst the herbs and heaps of broken stones;
"I can see the shape of the chapel outlined in the raw earth
just like the carcase of a stranded ship.
I would like to haul that Drifter out of the sand,
restore the splintered mast, precarious against the sky
but daring me to climb".
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 28th. 2016.
--------------------------------------------------------------
2.
Rogue Doorbell. (Revised)
Ringing, without being touched
by the wind or an outstretched finger,
my doorbell, apparently with a mind
of it`s own, shocks me out of my nap,
my body curled tight in the Windsor chair,
my head pressed down on the table.
Perhaps my dream was a dynamo,
powering thought with invisible muscle
to ring the bell and wake me up
before my neck became permanently cricked,
and my face was rubbed raw on the wood;
or perhaps there had been a minor earthquake
that displaced the delicate plastic buzzer
and shook the hallway with carillons.
I will simply remark, that when I lifted the curtain
there was no one in sight on the moonlit pathway,
the gate remained locked, the way I had left it,
with the latch pressed firmly down.
I settled back in my chair to think things over.
It seems - when the bell rang - I had been dreaming of Leila,
a lost companion I have tried to put out of my mind.
I can feel my heart pounding - right now - as I type her name.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 18th. - 19th. - 22nd. - August 29th. 2016.
June 23rd. 2020.
Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral.
I went and dreamed in my memory of the chapel,
sat and studied the herbs that now grow there
to create a metaphor of the resurrection,
vivid new growth amongst the broken stones.
"My head is like a sieve", the old woman cried;
"pour words into my ears they fall straight off my lips
then evaporate into the empty air".
"But nothing is really lost", I thought as I sat there
amongst the herbs and heaps of broken stones;
"I can see the shape of the chapel outlined in the raw earth
just like the carcase of a stranded ship.
I would like to haul that Drifter out of the sand,
restore the splintered mast, precarious against the sky
but daring me to climb".
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 28th. 2016.
--------------------------------------------------------------
2.
Rogue Doorbell. (Revised)
Ringing, without being touched
by the wind or an outstretched finger,
my doorbell, apparently with a mind
of it`s own, shocks me out of my nap,
my body curled tight in the Windsor chair,
my head pressed down on the table.
Perhaps my dream was a dynamo,
powering thought with invisible muscle
to ring the bell and wake me up
before my neck became permanently cricked,
and my face was rubbed raw on the wood;
or perhaps there had been a minor earthquake
that displaced the delicate plastic buzzer
and shook the hallway with carillons.
I will simply remark, that when I lifted the curtain
there was no one in sight on the moonlit pathway,
the gate remained locked, the way I had left it,
with the latch pressed firmly down.
I settled back in my chair to think things over.
It seems - when the bell rang - I had been dreaming of Leila,
a lost companion I have tried to put out of my mind.
I can feel my heart pounding - right now - as I type her name.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 18th. - 19th. - 22nd. - August 29th. 2016.
June 23rd. 2020.
Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems about Time. (1) Butterfly. (2) Through t...
Trevor J Potter's Art: Two Poems about Time. (1) Butterfly. (2) Through t...: 1. Butterfly . Fifty years ago you gave me a butterfly ...
Friday, 26 August 2016
Trevor J Potter's Art: War Zone. (New Version).
Trevor J Potter's Art: War Zone. (New Version).: The river of love bore you laughing to an early death. May Lazarus lift you up out of the fire of unknowing into the morning light. ...
Thursday, 25 August 2016
Butterfly.
1.
Butterfly.
Fifty years ago you gave me a butterfly
newly hatched from the chrysalis
you had stored discretely in an old shoe box
locked away in the cupboard on the third floor landing
out of sight of your father,
a retired army officer who thought that teen aged girls
should not indulge their time in scientific experiments
but should learn to cook and sew.
The butterfly still lives,
a strange fluttering enigma that awakes me late at night
when she takes a break from her hide away
close by the iron fireplace in my bedroom,
the same room where we slept together when we got the
chance.
I sometimes think this butterfly is just a figment
of my wild imagination,
my dream afflicted mind,
seventy years and more but still determinedly adolescent
and unable to understand
that the Past has packed up every bag and gone.
But your gift is still here with me, undeniably alive,
a little out of sorts now, but truer than that savage "goodbye"
letter
your father made you write
when he found out that we planned to start a family
without a "by your leave",
and that we thought his take on life was very out of date,
and not worthy of real consideration.
from time to time we managed to meet up,
from time to time we hogged the telephone,
but years ago I misplaced your address,
and I cannot store phone numbers in my head.
Then last night, as I lay awake, I had a most vivid premonition,
that you will soon come brusquely knocking on my door,
your face and shoulders tanned from foreign travel,
your coal black hair white as Alpine snow;
and that you will lift up your butterfly in long and delicate
fingers
to carry her out into my sunlit garden
where she can shimmy and glide among the roses
as to the manner born.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 22nd. - 23rd.-25th. 2016.
Butterfly.
Fifty years ago you gave me a butterfly
newly hatched from the chrysalis
you had stored discretely in an old shoe box
locked away in the cupboard on the third floor landing
out of sight of your father,
a retired army officer who thought that teen aged girls
should not indulge their time in scientific experiments
but should learn to cook and sew.
The butterfly still lives,
a strange fluttering enigma that awakes me late at night
when she takes a break from her hide away
close by the iron fireplace in my bedroom,
the same room where we slept together when we got the
chance.
I sometimes think this butterfly is just a figment
of my wild imagination,
my dream afflicted mind,
seventy years and more but still determinedly adolescent
and unable to understand
that the Past has packed up every bag and gone.
But your gift is still here with me, undeniably alive,
a little out of sorts now, but truer than that savage "goodbye"
letter
your father made you write
when he found out that we planned to start a family
without a "by your leave",
and that we thought his take on life was very out of date,
and not worthy of real consideration.
from time to time we managed to meet up,
from time to time we hogged the telephone,
but years ago I misplaced your address,
and I cannot store phone numbers in my head.
Then last night, as I lay awake, I had a most vivid premonition,
that you will soon come brusquely knocking on my door,
your face and shoulders tanned from foreign travel,
your coal black hair white as Alpine snow;
and that you will lift up your butterfly in long and delicate
fingers
to carry her out into my sunlit garden
where she can shimmy and glide among the roses
as to the manner born.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 22nd. - 23rd.-25th. 2016.
Thursday, 18 August 2016
Silver Sun.
Reflecting off my watch
I took a silver sun
for a walk around my room
until it touched your picture,
and for that precious moment
I remembered you
just the way you were
before seven lonely years
dropped like a velvet curtain
between our separate lives.
But last night I dreamt that you
sat alone by a window
somewhere in New York,
and that the declining August sun
touched the wall above your head
with a brilliant silver halo.
And a warm tear on your cheek
glinted like a pool of glass.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 17th. 2016.
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