Matko,
czemuż liść rajskiej jabłoni,
poczuł dotyk Twej dłoni?

... A wybór ten się ziścił?
To śnięcie, podszept liści...

Czy twa cierń była nader ostra?
Ma najdroższa,
Mater Nostra

... Dnia twego dziękczynienie,
nie miało oka tchnienie...

gdy znosiłaś krwiożercze znoje,
by ochronić
dziatki Twoje.

... Za Szeolem, bez pudru
lecz z chlubą łez nagości...

Twe serce 
zmrożone w kajdany,
nie okazało miłości.

... Tak, tych palców spostrzeżeń
u męża nań spuszczonych...

Iżby stworzyć koncepcję 
plemienia,cykl
niezwykle strudzony.

...Zbluzganiem, uwielbianiem,
Jest Ewą i Allahem...

Aby poczciwość dać rodzinie,
ciągle żyję
pod tym strachem.
Osobą jam nie znana,
Raczej funkcją, zadaniem
Jestem matką,
a moja profesja,
jest rodziny kochaniem.

„Od nigdy a po zawsze,
Byt, nie przeminę z wiatrem.

W honorze. W trawie. W mężczyźnie. Ostanę.”

longing. yearning. wanting. so many words for
a singular feeling. they never taught me how
to love an enigma. mystery’s an intrigue.
it wrenches you in like

beast in beauty and the beast. joker in joker—
now this is not to say you’re a ******* furry or
an anarchist’s *******: you are holy.
holy, as in baptise me

in your aprillian light;
grind my guts into grime
break my bones into brimstones and
let me love you twice

as hard. thrice the hurt.
four times the trouble,
five times the heart

you see, i’m very good at counting.

i’ll even do it for the both of us.
like how it’s been 437 days since saturn tore her knees.
75 days since you were anointed god.
20 after we fell apart and i know

i’m jumping into conclusions again. i know
you never said goodbye. not really,
but what is “see you when i see you” if not a gentle rejection?

you’re very fond of maybes,
that’s how i knew you were god.

so maybe we’ll meet in september,
shades of chartreuse forgotten under our feet.
changes in the weather, changes in the sweater
your touch no longer seduces me like summer

so then maybe,
with bones regrown like eden
i will reach for your temple

and show you how much i love you.

mirrors are used to tell you the truth within dreams
their memory goes further back than a day's length
you, the human, are dreaming of eden, an undiscovered maze
the night restlessly sells off her estranged gaze

shadows are flowing through your spinning mind
you see a child, contemplatively engaged in a game
not willing to follow any caring orders; you are glowing
as you are trying to hide yourself under a blanket of knowing

future has decayed, you have to blink, you have to smile
a century's crippled hands are grabbing at your truncated tongue
not even words, terms, speech and language remain
while rain is dripping from leaves, leaving its stain

asleep, you taste the bitter broth of your dream
the gods of the woods are coming for you, in amusement
the dog of voices is barking at his shadow; you are burping
while you hear the muzzle of your dream delightfully slurping

Oh, Ophelia,
sweet cherub
face, bathed
in moonlight,
doe eyes filled
                with woe:

You are a figure
of my affliction,
falling softly at
midnight, a
delicate dis-
position, fragile
                as soft snow,

a garden you
invite me to,
opulent trees of
treason, you
are the siren’s
call at dusk,
pulling me away
from the

                garden
                of
                eden.

I've seen Eden.
I've taken in its breath.
Embraced its luster.
It's a peace unlike any other.

I dance on the precipice.
The edge of paradise.
Looking over,
I see myself.

Lying alone, weeping softly.
I see his thoughts.
His obsessions.
His curse.

If I had a rope I'd help him up.
Should I abandon my utopia,
to share its wonders with him.
The jump isn't that far down.

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Published by The New Formalist, Poet’s Corner, The Road Not Taken, Charlie Hedbo Poetry

We now know there never was a perfect Garden of Eden, because trillions of animals suffered and died before human beings existed. Thus Adam and Eve cannot be responsible for suffering and death. That leaves the Creator, if such a being exists. If not, perhaps it was just the bad luck of the draw.

Keywords/Tags: Creator, Creationism, God, Demiurge, Yahweh, Jehovah, worship, religion, pray, prayer, evil, suffering, death, Jesus, Christ, Christian, Christianity, garden, Eden, Adam, Eve, animals, creatures, stallion, filly, pretty pickle, silly, nonsense

Adam Lay Ybounden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!"

The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn." Here is the original poem in one of its ancient forms:

Adam lay i-bounden, bounden in a bond;
Foure thousand winter thought he not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerkes finden written in theire book.
Ne hadde the apple taken been, the apple taken been,
Ne hadde never our Lady aye been heavene queen.
Blessed be the time that apple taken was,
Therefore we moun singen, “Deo gracias!”

Keywords/Tags: Middle English, translation, Medieval English, Adam, Eve, Genesis, Garden of Eden, apple, God, grace, gracious, Mary, heaven's queen, Lady, clerics