Three Poems. (1). Sufi Meditation. (2). June Night. (3). Post Modern Beauty. (I am the Duchess of Malfi still....).

                        1.

              Sufi Meditation.


Muted colours of a Pastoral Symphony;
The language of simplicity.

Fingers touching the hem of a sleeve.
A glance that does not need explaining.

All things straight forward,
Stone walls defining territory.



But that is in a far off country;
A distant time zone.

Here we only know the desert,
Contours splintered in the heat haze;

All things roughly covered over,
Nothing straight forward.



I draw the face of Rumi in the sand;
A gust of wind scatters the fine grains.


Trevor John karsavin Potter.
June 20th. - 21st. - 24th. - 25th.- 27th. - 30th. 2014.

========================

                        2.

                 June Night.


Last night
Midsummer rain awoke us

Black petals
Softer than eiderdown.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 23rd. 2014.

============================

                       3.

         Post Modern Beauty. 

(Duchess." I am the Duchess of Malfi still".
Bosola. "That makes thy sleep so broken". 
John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi: Act 4.)
                       =====

Mona Lisa`s face without the smile, yet flawless,
never to be scarred by age or exposure to the sun.
Groomed for the cat walk, the camera`s prying eye.
A fashion plate image refracted through amber glass
as the doors swing open wide, spilling the wintry air
deep into the pub. She was not seen to enter then, but
for a moment her face flickered in the alcove mirror
like a faded video image.

                         Candle light obscured her finest features,
Giovanna moved among the deepest shadows.

                                     Unsure for a moment where dreams
begin or vanish, or when reality transmutes into an impromptu
theatrical performance, I put down my glass and left the sanctuary,
hoping to spy her in the milling throng.

                                                                           Was that her
there, dancing among the shadows? Dancing alone in the ribald 
crowd?

The Barflies jostled each other like madmen in a Tragedy.
                                                       
                                                          I reached out to touch her shoulder;
but only the air seemed tangible, seemed real. I turned back into the alcove,
lonesome and defeated.

                                                       Something within me had died.
That delicate hint of perfume was perhaps the trace of a memory,
and yet I am certain that someone did mention her name. But then 
again, my hearing is somewhat decayed, I could have been mistaken.

Her face had quit the mirror.             The door slammed shut in the wind.

A shrill laugh echoed in the porch outside.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
August 5th. - 6th. 2012.
June 28th. - 29th. 2014.