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Pagan Paul Oct 2018
.
Fig leaves suit you,
but I can't wait 'til Autumn ;)


© Pagan Paul (2018)
.
Adam'n'Eve - cockney rhyming slang for 'believe'
.
Path Humble Sep 2018
“every one shall sit in safety un­der his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.”*

Letter from George Washington, 1790, to the Jewish community of Newport, Rhode Island


  <•>

multiple motifs present poesy alternatives,
but one supremes

safety in your own chosen orchard,
supping on clear water, wine and figs
children of trees, nurtured by one’s own hands,
children of your children, running the grove,
shouting out in sweet safety

the wasps happy shameless pollinate,
dreaming of more generations,
ruefully smiling, thinking of
Adam and Eve, who ashamed of
their apple’d sexuality,
hid their nakedness of course beneath
the safety of
fig leaves

you do not pray for safety
you do not ask for anything,
nothing to fear says the father,
for you already live in our own
George’s garden of eden
Jade Charlotte Sep 2018
New love
Full moon
The night fades white
I rest under a fig tree
The fruit falls ripe, bangs against my knee
I love you,
Do you love me?
I tuck my shirt into my jeans
Fall falls shedding autumn leaves
The full moon fertility
The newness of all there is to see
New lovers, new friends, new corners that bend and bend
Sprouts bursting out of cracks in concrete
I’ll wait for you at the end of class
Wait until our eyes meet
Tender figs gush like jam
Juice d r i p p i n g sweet
Sudipta Maity Mar 2018
Anklet of your feet or its my  mondegreen?
ringing cham cham cham jingling -
does I have to pay the cost?
Your night bird song, or my belief is unreal?
New in my stomach hemlock root is growing
I love again, the fig flower you were showing.
you don't love me
behind
my
back
we thought
you never
should
have
turn
ed
around

oh how perfect
you were
suppose
to be
we
think

in her
head
she
said
?




























...
..
.
what
...
..
.
Nina O'Donovan Apr 2016
Fig
There is a place
in you
that needs a name
but you're an absolute beginner
at naming things.
Centred in this pathos, I've never known

whether to create stillness or bitter passion.
In this, there is a sacrifice,
something to see through to the end.

The openness I sometimes extract
can break me down.
Is it better
to find a way to say it?
Would it be better to hang for it

or to forget
how the fig is fertilised?
In its sweetness,
to forget
the distaste of undermining friendship.
I have stretched myself into the past.

I have stretched my body
to see the places it could end.
Vein bubbles
from where it started,
wet bloodgasps;
sorry smear of a poem

they write your name next to.
History repeats, all that's left;
neutrality at the cost of
a better passion,
and the count of
how many ribs you have and how many you've lost.

I abuse my fingers
and still expect them to carry me through.
There's always a way
to see trauma as something to crawl into.
david mungoshi Feb 2016
gingerly on the knife-point of a problem
my inflated ego slowly was punctured
i heard the hiss of its demystification
in that constricted moment of revelation
a moment that enthused about the demise
of my avid hallucination now laid bare
salvation, the voice of naked truths chanted
is neither in the fig leaves nor in bashfulness
and the humming monotone of desperation
is a boost to candid inactivity and stillness
it is in such big-bore moments that we of
puerile yearnings recognize our childishness
a voice told me to stop tempting fate forthwith
for in truth i was a child with a dangerous toy
and only pampered tutors could stay the course
We must not always divest poetry of the beauty of contemplative mystery
Emma Reynolds Oct 2015
The way fig flesh
Folds itself
into each hour,
its skin rubbed
from gray to
purple, bitten into
yellow prickled with
gold seeds stuck
to your lips. It’s
late, maybe midnight
or two we’re not sure
as our feet trip
over stone streets and
we bid the other
buona notte.
I am hungry and
very much wanting
***. Instead
I sauté the
zucchini blossoms
my host mom
bought all’mercado.
and in her kitchen
I lick
the mouth of the
olive oil bottle as
the petals pucker
in her cast iron
pan and then with
a whisper of salt
they are burning
my mouth as I
pluck
each
from the pan, oil
dripping down my
wrists and after I
am still hungry
and very much
wanting ***
but I decide
it’s enough
to have figs and
zucchini blossoms
and I go to bed,
my mouth tasting
something
like a melody.

— The End —