Saturday, 17 February 2018

(1) My Mother`s Dinner Service. Revised. (2) Willow Pattern.

                    1.

   My Mother`s Dinner Service.


I keep returning to these, my favourite plates,
To study every detail of a picture
Transferred onto a white underglaze
In a factory in the English Midlands.

It must be strange to live in such a world,
To cross that blue, three arched antique bridge, or
Cut a blue branch from that leaning willow
And shave it into a rod.

A world so different from the noisy factory
Is difficult now to imagine,
But someone did imagine this strange scene
When creating a new line in dinner ware.

Profit was obviously the initial motif,
But to create a legend is not a common thing,
And these plates soon became a porcelain library
Of tales no scholar dug from Chinese scrolls.

When a child I fell to studying these plates,
And often wondered what it would be like
To be an outcast changed into a Swallow
Gliding high above a glistening white lake,

My blue wings lifting me into the stillness
Of a sky the same colour as the lake,
My true love singing as she flies beside me,
Our persecutors dumb struck on the bridge.

The inauthentic details in this picture
Were meant to tell no story, or so the artist thought
When he first put a blue pen to white paper.
Yet, the more I keep on looking, the more I seem to see.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
17th. - 18th. February 2018.

                    `2.

        Willow Pattern.


I am this shadow

You cannot hold me

Only observe the outline


Transformed into birds
We soar high above the arched bridge
Into the white sky
Briefly our song is heard
Among the Weeping Willows

The huntsman skims a stone
To shatter a fleeting image
But his aim is faulty
We have already flown far and wide
Out of reach

Later in another country
Transformed into our former selves
We sip green tea together
The simplicity of the ceremony
Instills a profound peace


Holding hands in the dark

The certainty of our love feels stronger

Than the rocks that make up the mountains


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
19th. November 2012.
The first three lines written 22nd. august 1972. 

Although written nearly six years apart, I think that these two poems compliment each other perfectly.

Sunday, 11 February 2018

Trevor J Potter's Art: Looking in the Mirror. (New Version)

Trevor J Potter's Art: Looking in the Mirror. (New Version): I do not recognize the face in this photograph. The person I was last summer is not the person I now am, Or wish to be, this bright mid w...

Saturday, 10 February 2018

Japanese Tea.


Japanese tea
Pale
The colours in mist shrouding the mountains in winter
Ephemeral
Tasting of wood smoke
Wood smoke sieved through morning snow
Fresh snow falling
Falling
On rocky
Ground

Japanese tea
Frail
Symbol of amity
Of tranquil moments by the window
Watching with you the large flakes falling
No words spoken
Just looking
Looking
Your diary
Closed
Upon the table
Your slim hand resting
Next to mine

Japanese tea
You quietly smile
As I pour it
Then pass the cup
To you


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 9th. - 10th. 2018.

For Ivy, out of her coma and now recovering speech.

Thursday, 8 February 2018

By the Fireside. Poem No. 2.


Suddenly the skies are southern blue;
The dismal days are over, those sombre hours
We met under a permanent cloud
In smoke filled lounges
To scry the future in fading embers.

The sun has cracked the shell of winter,
And like the Phoenix soaring out of ashes
We drop two magic feathers in the lap
Of the purblind newborn year.
The crib should now be out of bounds to witches.

We throw our party hats upon the fire
Then snuggle up together on the sofa.
Last year I saw your face etched in the wood smoke;
Tonight you dropped your passport in the shredder;
It seems this house is world enough for you.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
25th. January 2014. - 8th. February 2018.
This poem should be read in conjunction with By the Fireside Poem No.1.


Monday, 5 February 2018

By the Fireside. Poem No. 1. (A Fantasy).


Suddenly the skies are southern blue;
The darkest days no more, those sombre hours
We hunkered down
In smoke filled alcoves
Scrying our fortunes in ash and embers.

The sun has cracked the ice lake,
The frozen water falls,
And like the reborn Phoenix soaring high
The infant year takes flight:
Wings of burnished amber catch the light.

Revamping the instant joy of fairground children
Running towards the ocean,
The perfect beach
Where wizard dreams come true,
We seek our fates,
Our unseen futures,
In smouldering remnants.

Last night I saw her face etched in the afterglow
As the room chilled
And the radio
Was unplugged at the wall.
A Pre-Raphaelite Angel face
Veiled in freezing mist.
Perhaps a dream woke early, filtered through
Before I closed my eyes and eased the sheets
Over my naked shoulders,
Or perhaps a spectre knocked upon the door.

A long cold journey, but some good news in June.
The clairvoyant yawned,
Raked the coals and ashes,
Then downed a glass of sherry.
Perhaps at last I shall outsmart the Ogre,
Steal the Golden Goose, get the girl.
Or perhaps, more likely, lose my grip and fall.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
25th. January 2014. -3rd. - 4th. - 5th. - 6th.  February 2018.
For Ivy.

Friday, 2 February 2018

Resurgence.


Thus we now discover Candlemas
Deep in this barren concrete city,
Frost white, not a trace of green,
Not a single sparrow darting:
Hand in hand through silent streets
We walk towards the darkened church.

Thus now we discover Candlemas
In a sudden arc of cold intensity
Piercing the depths of this February night
With the fire of revelation.
Barely illuminating hands and faces
Tapers drip hot pools of wax.

Yes now we are consecrate to Candlemas.
Ignoring the priest you kiss my fingers
And smile at me, saying nothing;
In your arms the child is sleeping.

Oh God, How I Do Love Thee! Love Thee!
The winter is dying, spring is now certain,
Soon the white snowdrops upon the Heath.
Oh God, How I Do Love Thee! Love Thee!
The choirboys intone the Nunc Dimittis
Exclaimed to Mary as she entered the Temple.
But I only care that your hazel eyes
Are looking, looking, deep into mine.

I have loved thee since childhood,
                                           Since our first frenzied schooldays
When we larked and we fought and we kicked and we screamed
And we biked and we sprinted across the high Heath.
We raced with our shadows like a pair of mad puppies,
                                          A disorder of fox cubs,
                                          A convulsion of geese,
Young poets of mayhem mocking the dull world,
Of parents and teachers and meddlesome priests.

Oh then we shouted and sang at the raw winter landscape
Our disconsolate, irreverent, disorders of praise,
Rare songs of new shaping rough hewn to our liking,
In that wild pagan language, the spiel of our youth,
A cross breed concoction of ancient and modern
Filched from Anne Sexton, Bob Dylan, James Joyce,
The Beatles, Bill Shakespeare, and expletives of choice.
Oh God, How I Do Love Thee! Love Thee! Love Thee!
Your smile packs the church with whole gardens of flowers.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 1st. 2011. - August 21st. 2012. - February 2nd. 2018.
This is a complete rewrite of a poem sketched seven years ago. I think I must consider it to be more or less a new poem, but with the spirit of the original intact, or perhaps even enhanced by the much tighter structure of this new version.


Monday, 29 January 2018

Last Night I Became Aware of the Beauty of Wood.


Last night I became aware of the beauty of wood,
A beauty I had been taught to disregard
By parents in love with modern things,
With glass and steel, with artifacts of plastic,
With Formica tops covering leaky boards.

Last night I fell in love with polished wood,
Pale or dark, teak or pine, soft, or hard to cut,
It does not matter which;
Even the rough edged finish of the rocking chair
Is a delight to look at, to talk about, to touch.

Last night I threw out cushions stuffed with foam,
Stripped the plastic cover off the table,
Tore the tarnished lino from the floor.
Suddenly the whole house seemed to glow with life,
The dance of light on raw, and polished, grains.

From now on the table, the chairs, the Chinese sofa
Shall remain uncovered, their simple hand made structures
Loved for what they are,
Objects that lit a smile in the eyes of the craftsman
When he hung up his lathe and saw.

My parents, it now seems, were not so modern;
They simply hid what they loved for me to find.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
29th. January 2018.