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A Fig


Author: Poly Jean
ASL Info:    31/f/FarAway
Elite Ratio:    4.46 - 382 /259 /68
Words: 164
Class/Type: Poetry /Longing
Total Views: 1629
Average Vote:    No vote yet.
Bytes: 1106



Description:


Scribbling desperately , again.


I haven’t got much feedback on this one. Submitting again, since I need help about it, or any opinion.



A Fig





You were never love at first sight
too complicated, too obscure
to be trusted easily.
For years, not knowing it,
I carried
curved in melting stone of my mind
an ornament of your voice.

It wake me up to life
it brought me back to light.

You thought me so much...
      ...that time is a potent drug
      a device that has a mind of its own
      a blessing that shouldn’t be taken for granted.
      ...that revelation often carries a mask of disguise
      that loneliness is sometimes diamond wrapped in gray rag.


In you I’m revealing myself
growing overwhelmed by poems and sorrow
sweet as a fig
waiting, cut in two,
to be suckled and devoured.
Left unconsumed, in august fiery sunlight.








Submitted on 2006-06-26 14:48:03     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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Comments


  I think this poem is fine and passionate and has a nice insistance to it...you quickly draw the reader in...I liked it muchly... (you typos that need to be fixed in lines 8 and 10) again, a fine poem... bravo... bravo... bravo .... michael
| Posted on 2007-08-20 00:00:00 | by Algol46 | [ Reply to This ]
  You, your heart, your love, is a fig left out in the sun, in other words spoiled before it could be tasted. Years wasted, pleasure denied, but finally coming to be revealed.
Here's my take on this: You've just gone a bit too far with this, back off a tad and it will shine.

Suggestions: S1 "carved in the melted stone..."
S2 "woke"
S3 I see this as the most confusing part. The italicized portion is good on its own, it's that intro line of "You thought me so much..." I found this very distracting and was not sure what you meant by it. To clear up the meaning I would need to know what you are thinking. I guess you can look at it and make it more definitive. In the italicized part maybe use a different form or set up for the quoted lines. Each "that" at the line beginning should maybe start at the same indent position.
S4 Just puctuation really, a comma after "In you" and also after "devoured" in place of the period and then "left" (no capiltalization).

Overall it seemed you were avoiding the use of articles: "a, the, etc." Why? Put them in to help clarify your meaning.

I liked the comparisons you made "ornament of your voice", "sorrow / sweet as a fig". I just got lost in that middle part. When you modify that for clarity this will be an excellent poem. I felt as though a lot of time had passed between two lovers and they just now were beginning to open up to each other, but then worried if the poor fig would get burned again. I see a lot of original ideas in this, but as I said earlier, I think you went just a bit too far. I sure hope this helps. Overall - I liked this.

Phil
| Posted on 2006-07-06 00:00:00 | by phil askew | [ Reply to This ]
  One reason you might not have gotten much feedback is the abstractness of lines like "curved in melting stone of my mind
an ornament of your voice." Abstractness isn't good or bad, but many people just don't like to think that way.

I'm sure that "It wake me up to life" is done for effect, but I don't think it's effective. I think I'd be grammatically correct and say "It woke me up to life."

In the last line, I'm not sure whether you mean the month or the adjective, so if you mean the month, I'd capitalize it. I'd lose the ellipses in the middle section because they make it sound tenative. If you decide to keep them, I really wouldn't put two back to back because it seems redundant, and reading it that way just doesn't work.

The last lines remind me of D.H. Lawrence's poem "Figs." It's simply delicious (though ironically, I find the taste of figs foul):


Figs
By D.H. Lawrence


The proper way to eat a fig, in society,
Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,
And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.
Then you throw away the skin
Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,
After you have taken off the blossom with your lips.

But the vulgar way
Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.

Every fruit has its secret.

The fig is a very secretive fruit.
As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic:
And it seems male.
But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is female.

The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part; the fig-fruit:
The fissure, the yoni,
The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre.

Involved,
Inturned,
The flowering all inward and womb-fibrilled;
And but one orifice.

The fig, the horse-shoe, the squash-blossom.
Symbols.

There was a flower that flowered inward, womb-ward;
Now there is a fruit like a ripe womb.

It was always a secret.
That's how it should be, the female should always be secret.

There never was any standing aloft and unfolded on a bough
Like other flowers, in a revelation of petals;
Silver-pink peach, venetian green glass of medlars and sorb-apples,
Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems
Opening pledging heaven:
Here's to the thorn in flower! Here is to Utterance!
The brave, adventurous rosaceae.
Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,
The milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,
Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won't taste it;
Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman,
Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,
One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light;
Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,
Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,
Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilization, and fruiting
In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see
Till it's finished, and you're over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost.

Till the drop of ripeness exudes,
And the year is over.

And then the fig has kept her secret long enough.
So it explodes, and you see through the fissure the scarlet.
And the fig is finished, the year is over.

That's how the fig dies, showing her crimson through purple slit
Like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day.
Like a prostitute, the bursten fig, making a show of her secret.

That's how women die too.

The year is fallen over-ripe,
The year of our women.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
The secret is laid bare.
The rottenness soon sets in.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.

When Eve once knew in her mind that she was naked
She quickly sewed fig-leaves, and sewed the same for the man.
She'd been naked all her days before,
But till then, till that apple of knowledge, she hadn't had the fact on her mind.

She got the fact on her mind, and quickly sewed fig leaves.
And women have been sewing ever since.
But now they stitch to adorn the bursten fig, not to cover it.
They have their nakedness more than ever on their mind,
And they won't let us forget it.

Now, the secret
Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips
That laugh at the Lord's indignation.

What then, good Lord! cry the women.
We have kept our secret long enough.
We are a ripe fig.
Let us burst into affirmation.

They forget, ripe figs won't keep.
Ripe figs won't keep.
Honey-white figs of the north, black figs with scarlet inside, of the south.
Ripe figs won't keep, won't keep in any clime.
What then, when women the world over have all bursten into self-assurance?
And bursten figs won't keep?
| Posted on 2006-06-26 00:00:00 | by cuddledumplin | [ Reply to This ]


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