If I were a Camera. ( Newly Re-written Poem).

If I were a camera I would zoom in directly

On winter trees loud with anthracite crows,

The ice white ripples on a cold shallow lake;

The dance of snowdrops in the cottage meadow -

Not on hipster life in Kreuzberg Berlin - the snake man

Easing dollars from slobs on Venice beach.  Nor would I 

Grab a mac to snap Soho in the rain, crowded pubs

Rowdy as Hell in Borough Market; punters sweating pints

                                                             on the Cam or Isis.

No, not at all; but I would rather be in rural Ireland

Far from the crowds at any time of year - snug in the

                                                                        coffee shop

Rock crystals on the counter. There`s an off white sofa to 

                                                   snuggle up and lounge in - 

Cakes of many flavours - coffee more than creamy -

English and Irish spoken soft and loud. Or in Fermanagh 

                                                                                buying

Apples and veg and chatter from that farmer up the hill.- 

This is the world I could live in, commemorate in black and 

                                                                                       white, 

But recall in perfect colours. Here where I am at home, loved

Respected. Not merely a pale face passed in the Underground.-  

An image that fades in an instant as the travelers rush by.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

27th. 28th. February - March 4th.2025.

Radio Face 1 & 2. /Houses.(A Sketch).

 

Music. 2 Paihngs.

 

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.

Interior Landscape

 

February 2025 - The end of order, 4 Pictures.

 

Moonlight Camden Town / Interior. A poem plus 2 Pictures. (Poem newly Completed).

Buying incense by moonlight -

The swiftly jostling crowds are all strangers.

I walk slowly through the mob

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 and that is all that can be to it.

I am merely a downcast face in the winter throng.

But far away, far beyond the traders;

Far beyond the shoppers and almost at the verge of sight,

I can see a lonely girl dressed in grey and white,

An Ophelia - mod and magical - only I in this crowd could

                                                                                     know.

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, is kindly.

"Beer or coffee"? She whispers.

We frantically rush to the pub before the lights are turned low.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. February 11th. - 12th. 2025.