Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) The Face of The Virgin, (The Feast of the Holy...

Trevor J Potter's Art: (1) The Face of The Virgin, (The Feast of the Holy...:                   1 . The Face of the Virgin.       (The Feast of the Holy Innocents). In the back streets of Bethlehem some women are...

Birthday.(Completed Version).

Today is my birthday, 

The commencement of my New Year;

April twenty seventh nineteen forty three,

The only true Year Zero;

"In the beginning God" - simply a metaphor?

I burn some incense.

Grey smoke, slowly rising, fills this small room

Until every corner is hazy,

Concealed in the fug of a dream.

Dreams fade quickly, just like a dampened fire.

I whisper my fears to the face that haunts the mirror

But expect no urgent reply.

The mirror can only show Now, never tomorrow,

The past is also omitted from its remit.

This mirror is just too honest. I name it an enemy.

Today is my birthday,

The day in which I recall what I cannot recall,

My first encounter with heat and cold and light.

"In the beginning God", but then I did not know that.

The future was also a blank, the past already redundant.

I glance at the clock. Midnight. Time shows no mercy,

My birthday already over. I turn off the kitchen light.

It is now too dark to wish "good night" to the mirror.

God parting the dark from light claimed all was good. 

Perhaps I don`t disagree.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

April 27th. - 28th. 2022.

This poem came to me at 11 pm. and I finished the first version at 3 am. My computer is in the kitchen and I wrote straight onto my Blog page. I rarely do this because poems take time and can go through several revisions and transformations. It is like druiving a fast car in the dark.

Trevor J Potter's Art: September Poem. (Completed Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: September Poem. (Completed Version).:                            She loved me                                                  and in September She wore the curling leaves in...

Tulip.

 A tulip in bloom is shaped like many things,

Both sacred and profane - sunlit or moon dark -

A woman`s breast - her vulva - her loving kiss -

A gilded cup emptied of blood red wine -

Two hands cupped together to receive a gift -

A gift of chicks new born - a gift of life and death -

The whole of life expressed in one small bloom

That rarely lasts more than a single week.

All that we are expressed in this small flower -

A single blaze of joy, then all,  yes all is lost. 

A tulip in a vase is a poor sad thing,

But a garden full of tulips can make a dumb child sing.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

22nd. April 2022.

Impressions of Two Easter Sundays a Year Apart.(Completed Poem).

2021.

Emptied communion cups dropped on the ground;

My garden tulips fade as the dawn breeze quickens,

Their petals opening out, about to fall,

Spilled like lost words, heavy with time and failed memories,

Dying yet nurturing a future still buried,

Next year in embryo.

2022.

Bulbs forcing pale shoots out into the light;

Communion cups transformed from green to bright gold,

New blossoms flourishing - a new era made manifest,

The air rich with the scents of wine and honey, the tang of

                                                                      baked Matzah; 

That which we thought dead now dazzles our senses.

Ancient prayers made true as we sing them this Easter,

The cries of an infant intermingling with them.

Old ways, long neglected, making new once more.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

21st. April 2022.

Written after studying the poem "Holy Communion" by George Herbert.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Starlight Love Poem. (New Completed Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Starlight Love Poem. (New Completed Poem).: This love I offer is not an empty token. Cuddle up close against the winter night. We are the same material as the stars And should not f...

Good Friday in a Time of War. (Completed Poem).

Good Friday is not good,

It is hopelessness,

Desolation,

All the cities that have ever burned

Still burning,

Every child that was ever slaughtered

Still feeling the thrust of the knife,

The heat of the bullet,

The raw edge of the rope.

Good Friday is every crime ever committed,

Every murder,

Every rape, 

Every act of genocidal war;

And still the rockets pour down molten rain.

And still the victims crouch beneath the earth. -

All this expressed in savage hammer blows

That forced the nails through the opened hands

Of the healer,

The charismatic Lord of Life.

He forgave all those he healed with love

Because he knew their thoughts, their hopes, their fears.

He knew that they would turn their backs on him

When he was stretched wide screaming on the cross,

Crucified because he spoke the truth,

Because he cured the blind -

The halt - the dumb - the deaf - the epileptic, -

Because he woke the dead;

And still the victims crouch in catacombs and bunkers.

Good Friday is not good,

It is a blasphemy against all things,

Against the child nestling in the womb,

Against the beauty of the universe,

Against every tiny deed of love,

Against every mother`s smile and kiss.

Eli, Eli lama sabachthani?

And still the rockets pour down molten rain.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

15th. - 16th. April 2022.