The Inner Coma
or The Parenthetic Pomegranate
The apple that the serpent gave,
The pomegranate tender,
To Eve upon that fateful morn,
A sleeping, riping, curling dawn
When Eve, with conscience sorely slender,
With nought but spirit of the grave
(But nonetheless forlorn
For who, of all, should save
The eloquent pretender)
The apple (for I shall go on
With this my saga sprightly,
Being of persistent mind
And well-renowned for being kind,
(A word that I do not use lightly)
(I've many virtues, whereupon,
I muse in thought (I am not blind)
Though criticised anon)
To any animals I find)
Which Eve took up (as I've remarked
(Although I nearly broke my wrist)
To those who can my charm withstand)
(To them, I say, I raise my hand)
(To critics, though, I shake my fist,
Like sultry dogs who never barked
At him who plies his rubber band)
This apple (now the end is marked!)
Did not (I'm sad to say) exist.
Flaxen diamonds in the field
Woollen rubies in the glens,
Reap again this golden yield
Harvested from countless fens.
Whisping acres, silent streams
Gloomy glades, miasmic moors,
Sleep again these meadow dreams!
Dream again of tiger's roars.
Over topaz trees of wheat
Under skies of azure deep
Where the waters, apple-sweet
Are lapped by sundry servile sheep,
Sheep, whose thoughts run oft about
The verdant pastures underhoof,
Whose ruby minds contain no doubt
That G”del's is the sounder proof.
My sheep, my sheep, my little ones
Pay heed, I beg, to all my pleas:
O never follow him who runs!
Nor ever try to swallow fleas.
O little lambs and perky pigs
O dormice dour and badgers brisk,
Oh, shun the wiry diamond rigs
And beat them with a wiry whisk.
Flaxen diamonds in the carriage
Woollen rubies break the deadlock
Piglets always shy from wedlock
Pearls will always lead to marriage.
©1973, 1999 The Rat Fathom Poets
Edited by Peter Christian
November 07 2009.