Whit Sunday Morning 2020.

Today is Pentecost, I change my coat
From winter wear to summer wear,
From a navy dye to a lighter colour,
Throw out the loose change from my pockets
And leave them empty of all but hope.

Today is Pentecost, the late Spring flowers
Spread across the garden pathways
Hiding the brutal slabs of concrete.
I tip toe carefully between green fronds
Not wishing to crush them beneath my boots.

Today is Pentecost, gusts of wind
Bend my rose trees, rattle the fences,
Lift slates and tiles from my neighbours roofs;
The old world seems to be falling apart
On this very morning of renewal.

I scrub my old coat in the kitchen
Then hang it out on the line to dry.
Today is Pentecost, the morning sun
Burns my face as I look to the skies.
Suddenly I clap my hands and sing.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
31st. May 2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: One Moment in May. (Newly Completed Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: One Moment in May. (Newly Completed Poem).: The heft of your love made me be still, The light in your eyes stung me with praise, Pierced me with sorrow, cut me to the heart Of all ...

Fly Past.

I welcome this fly buzzing over my food.
Someone brand new has entered my home,
A perfect stranger from a miniscule world
Unrestricted by Covid - 19 and lock down,
Someone who simply comes and goes.

If this fly has a name, I will not overhear it,
The name will be secret, locked in the fly mind,
A delicate speck of self consciousness
That gives the fly reasons for being a fly.
Each insect has its own small take on the world.

Folk are not as special as we think we are,
We can be killed by a spiky globule of fat
Invisible to the human eye.
Perhaps the fly can avoid what we cannot see,
It has five bright eyes on its little blue head.

This fly takes the loneliness out of the day,
It is a living creature sharing my house
That has been my monks cell for most of the
                                                               spring,
But sadly there is nothing we can natter about,
My life would seem meaningless to gnat or to
                                                               musca,

A dream that this fly will never encounter.
A fly is too buzzy to lie back and dream.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
17th. - 25th. 2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Ascension. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Ascension. (Revised).: Slowly degrading memories. A signature on a testament. A photograph, paper thin and fading, Just like the pages of a discarded book, A ...

Advent Memories. (New Poem).

Slowly degrading memories.
A signature on a testament.
A photograph, paper thin and fading,
Just like the pages of a discarded book,
A paperback bought for a few old pennies,
Then left on a window ledge.
Sometimes the recording of a voice
Repeating the same old sentences
Again and again and again,
Petrified sound waves mocking a life once loved.

The bunch of bones left rotting in a coffin,
Appear to have no relationship,
No tangible link
To many of these magical artifacts,
These tokens left from a life that puzzle us
As we try to touch the past and make it real,
Bring once familiar faces back to life,
Warm and loving and full of joie de vivre.

The table that I work on is a hundred years old.
The polished top reflects my hand as though it

                                                     were a mirror,

A mirror of dark images

That are faded out the instant lamplight fails.

Is this all we leave behind us? A room furnished

                                               with forgetfulness

For other folk to live in, to remodel for themselves? 
Perhaps these fading images are everything we are;

Reflections of how other people dream us.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
18th. - 26th. May 2020. - November 29th. 2020.

A rewrite of the poem Ascension.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Hope on the Verge of Winter, 1969.(Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Hope on the Verge of Winter, 1969.(Revised).:          Through a glass darkly I perceive her Caught in the prism of former times, North London Girl Pale as the Arctic ice floes,    ...

Urban Mona Lisa.

Mona Lisa`s face without the smile,
A remote image reflected through long aeons,
Through smoke and countless tarnished mirrors
Onto the almost blank, unspotted page
Of an up to date young life.

This girl, sitting silent on the opposite side
Of the room to the alcove in which I lounge,
Has hardly learned her A to Zee, her 1 to 10,
And yet is ready to take on the world,
And shake her man with outrageous views.

No teacher could make her a slave to the rules,
No politician could hoodwink her with a lie.
She was born with a million years of knowledge
Stored in the silent depths of her mind,
A library waiting for the words to be formed.

But she knew what to say when she crossed the room
To sit with the man she had watched all night,
Her eyes dark with secrets only he can read
In the candle lit hubbub of the Peanuts Club.
"I too am a rebel", she whispered, then smiled.

The underpaid band bashed out folk songs
The singers raw voiced and well out of time.
"The audience are shadows", I quietly answered,
"But we two are dancers among the dud stars".
"We are the only stars here" she laughed, then kissed me.

"Have we met before? I know your face".
"My friends say I look like a famous painting,
Italian I think - of a pregnant woman".
"Ah yea". Mona Lisa, but a different smile;
A pizza in one hand, a pint in the other.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
13th. - 14th. - May 2020. - December 5th. 2020.
The first line was jotted down 1962 / 63, in the Peanuts Club,
a Folk, Jazz and Poetry Club that I frequented when a teenager.
The club was demolished when Liverpool Street Station was
modernised and extended.