Writing About Deep Feeling.(Revised).

Your body curled close to mine.

Your nutmeg coloured hair folds over my face

Hot cascades of love.

Writing about deep feeling is not easy nowadays.

Romantic bliss degraded like an ancient photograph,

Framed but shoved into a plastic box

Out of mind somewhere in the attic

Where mould eats into bygones.

Porn has become ubiquitous day and night,

Outpacing Superman to the starry heights

Of school yard chit chat - office innuendo -

Sunday sermons against freedom of thought.

Romanticism has lost its razor edge

And can no longer cut deep into the imagination

To carve out poems with words older than time.

Time is a human concept thought up to mock our dreams,

Tarnish bright hopes then chuck them out as garbage.

But my dream of you has been constant since we met,

Your nutmeg coloured hair folding over my face

A hiding place where we can share our secrets.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

30th. January - 24th. April 2022.

Thinking of Nina Hamnett. (Revised).

Your body draped across the spiked railings,

A sleeping bag heavy with broken dreams

Dropped from a bedroom window. -

Drama was always your forte, your reason

                                                for surviving

The weird excesses of Fitzrovia,

The hunger and the cold, the countless swigs

                                                   of whiskey,

The not too cheap champagne.

Also

The independence Modigliani helped you

                                                           discover

When you were both at home in Paris

Seeking individual ways to shape the modern. -

You could have been a spectacular artist, but

The lure of whiskey and wild nights

Clogged your brushes, wrecked your steady eye,

Separated your life from the remnants of talent

Too quickly swabbed away. -

This familiar portrait of you in the Courtauld

                                                           Institute

Shows a pensive face, thoughtful but secretly grieving

For a loss you dared not share, or perhaps were scared

                                                             to name

To yourself, or sozzled friends in the Fitzroy Tavern. -

Your death was terrible, painful beyond imagining,

An unseen fall from a high up open window

In the quiet damp chill of morning.

"Why don`t they let me die", you whispered to the doctors

Who already knew they had no means to save you,

But dare not give that final dose of morphine. -

I was a schoolboy in grey suits at that time, but already

                                                                               knew

The sinuous darkness of Soho, the bustle of Charing Cross

                                                                                Road.

I think I saw you once, a slightly hunched old lady

Lost in the noisy crowds, childlike, far from home.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

January 24th. - 25th. - September 4th. 2022.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Paintbrush Meditations, - Four Short Poems About A...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Paintbrush Meditations, - Four Short Poems About A...:                         1 . Love the new painting I just painted, Not because I painted it But because I painted it with love.              ...

Paintbrush Meditations, - Four Short Poems About Art. (Revised Sequence).

                        1.

Love the new painting I just painted,

Not because I painted it

But because I painted it with love.

                       2.

Art is my language;

I cannot talk small-talk to strangers,

Or neighbours,

Or old friends,

Its far too insensitive,

Far too out of touch.

But the paintings I paint are not mute,

They will tell you the whole of my story

If you just stay still

And look.

                        3

No, I will not sell my paintings

Even though you beg me.

They are the reason I exist.

They are my children.

They are everything I am.

I cannot sell a part of myself

Even if snide loan sharks 

Batter down the door.

Only a fool could sell his child

To buy a loaf of bread.

Once the bread is finished

Then everything is lost.

No, I will not sell my paintings;

What you do when I am dead is up to you.

                         

                        4.

This painting tells an intimate story.

It does not give up its secrets easily,

If it did it would not be true to life,

Our squabbles and our laughter.

Love this painting, not because I painted it,

It is a law unto itself, outside the wall of words.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

14th. - 16th. - 21st January 2022. 

Stardust Kisses.

The kisses that I saved up just for you

Posses the powers to turn back every clock,

Make each new day the first day that we met,

Then hold back winter for a thousand years.

Your kisses also have these special powers,

They taste of springtime, of cups of cherry wine,

Of Gypsy blessings spoken in a trance

While lace is draped across the wedding bed.

When I am with you January seems to melt,

A pale grey ghost leaving by the back door,

An early April sun has pierced the blinds.

When I am with you daffodils never wither.

The kisses that we saved up for each other

Are stardust kisses, they fill our lives with light,

Change us to the children we once were

Chasing after wild dreams in the park.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

14th. January 2022.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Solstice Nativity.(Newly Completed Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Solstice Nativity.(Newly Completed Version).: The daylight is too subtle at this time of year. I prefer bright colours -  Odilon Redon on speed Cutting to the heart of the matter With th...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Solstice Nativity.(Newly Completed Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Solstice Nativity.(Newly Completed Version).: The daylight is too subtle at this time of year. I prefer bright colours -  Odilon Redon on speed Cutting to the heart of the matter With th...