WARNING: ADULT CONTENT… I got a bit carried away. If you expect to be offended, close your eyes to the sections printed to the right side of the page, in RED. They are not essential components of the poem.
I am the spirit of a Biblical metaphor,
raised beneath a celibate sky,
nourished by fertile dirt’s clean creations,
nurtured by trees whose lenient branches
were cradles that rocked me, and whose growing leaves
gave glorious shade against the noon-tide haze. Nature
was my nursery, my playground, my adventure trail,
my safe, serene haven, a concert hall
where birds, conducted by seasons and sun
sang heavenly songs for me, to the backing
of ticking crickets and buzzing bees.
This was my Eden.
Since the original sentencing, endless generations have meekly bled away their weeping days, bones brittling and crumbling away, juices sinking into the speckled detritus of history. Those with time and rage enough have fought for truth, yet still, by dint of my sex, I stand accused by those who would rule and defile me.
I offer you my defence:
It was another who plucked the fruit, not I.
I beg you to see that I had a wholesome balance and bounteous range of flavours within reach. Had I felt the desire for more variety, I expect there was a plentiful supply of untried legal foods in the nethermost regions of Eden.
The world was new; sophisticated tricks
to trap a virgin girl
had not yet been invented.
No budding rose, no dainty sweets to tempt my tongue,
no ardent vows or subtle wheedling
led me to my fall.
Neither did I simper or whisper lewdly wicked words
in man’s unyielding ear, or plot in any way
to take heart or prick as jewellery or trinket.
I did not know the form reflected in man’s eyes
was no more romping child but nubile wench,
until the moment that he grabbed me, forced my jaws apart.
and made me swallow. Even as I choked and retched,
failing to eject the stinking fruit,
he threw me to the forest floor
and roughly ravaged me, injecting me
with toxic stench that stole from me
the world that I held dear.
It was man who separated me from Eden.
Now he slyly lays the blame on Eve.
The judge glances down. Glossy prints display scars on sickened flesh. Documents testify to my ruptured hymen, but where is the record of the lies repeated since the dawn of creation, and what care has he for my suffering mind? I wait for the inevitable hoodwinking protestations.
Licking his lips, he looks my way, then promptly dismisses my pain. He claims circumstantial evidence, or says that I alone am to blame, citing historical temptresses, his finger pointing as he intones felonious accusations of the lascivious nature of all females, dating from Eve’s days.
His Honour’s cock
ticks out a seashore rhythm of lust, a foaming
hot blood throb concealed beneath His Honourably billowing gown.
A thickness of phlegm
sits heavy on his chest. A quick cough
dislodges it; affording him
a viscous dewdrop of pleasure, no more.
There are bigger things to shift, he thinks. His hidden hand
inches
toward the swelling itch. Fiddles. Just
a tickle of anticipation
which must later lead to a drawn out, ecstatic
scratch.
He visualises phallic fungi
thrusting capped heads through the thin throats
of calla lilies, shredding delicate membranes,
while his sensitive finger
gently strokes,
his finger, so slim,
so
similar
to a choir boy’s…
oh, yes.. A choir…
boy’s…
budding
…
From the witness stand, I interrupt
his surreptitious clutching.
I had the perfection of Eden, I say.
I had the wonder of childhood.
How could I dream of anything else?
Behind the bench,
the judge
massages
his groin
just…
just
a
little…
just a little…
more.
He regains self-control, postponing his goal until he’s alone. Gone are the golden days of summoning young scraps of flesh that would not dare threaten his authority or breathe a word of his greedily inflicted sadism. But he must not yet dwell on the tears. He must refrain from picturing so many pitiful pairs of defeated legs which limped so prettily away. It would only increase the emergency of release.
Soon he’ll be free to bolt his door, and summon every supreme detail.
He takes pains to concentrate, to focus
on closing the case.
Raising his gavel, he lets it slam.
He calls for order and proclaims the witness
guilty again.
Guilty of inciting rape.
Guilty of consuming the fruit.
Guilty of causing the fall.
Guilty down to my chromosomes.
.
That’s it, folks. Time to drop the subject…
©Jane Paterson Basil
I need to read this again, Jane. This is too beautiful and too powerful to comprehend in one reading… or, I suspect, twenty. You’ve turned agony into art.
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The words”thank you” don’t say enough. I thought readers might back away from this particular poem, so exhilarating for me to know that you have read and appreciated it.
I try to turn agony into art, otherwise it is wasted and the ogres have won on at least one level.
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You have more than won. You have triumphed.
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Thank you… again.
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Perfect. Thank you for being brave enough to post such a poignant piece.
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It’ wasn’t the writing that make me quake, but the click of the “publish” button.
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You clicked well!
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Thank you!
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Thank you for the warning, Jane. I was almost put off reading your poem, but I am glad I wasn’t. I found nothing offensive in the way you wrote this very powerful poem. If it causes people to think, then good.
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Thank you. That’s why I wrote it that way. I nearly edited some of it out, but then the hypocrisy wouldn’t have come across so strongly.
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Again, this is just so powerful and honest. I believe you are coming into your own, girlfriend. What a multi-layered poem!
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Thank you Calen. When I began writing it, I didn’t expect a child-abusing judge to rear his ugly head, but once he appeared there was no stopping him.
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Sounds about like our justice system today!
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The trouble is you don’t have to be ethical to attain a position of power – you just have to get away with your crimes…
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Unfortunately we’re back to the mob mentality, aren’t we…
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Yes – we’re going backwards instead of forwards. As a socialist (shock, horror!) I’m aware that the extreme capitalism which exists throughout the world is the cause of many of our troubles. With greed comes austerity. Greed brings crimes which are covered up, and austerity brings anger and desperation, resulting in more crime of every kind. I just wish that more of the have-nots understood politics better and voted for the politicians who care about their plight…
Uh-oh, I’m ranting again… my favorite nephew has just been elected our local parliamentary candidate, when the national elections come up again…
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Way cool!
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good to purge and you have expressed what most of us have felt … or experienced, well written!
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Thank you Kate. I think I’d better hold back on this kind of poem for a while, or I’ll be perceived as the wrong kind of feminist – the kind who blames ALL men for EVERY crime the world, which I’m not. a lot of men get a rough deal too – especially those who are abused.
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yes, anyone who knows you knows that it’s aimed at the abusive, not the gentle souls .. 🙂
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I hope so…
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Very Fascinating Points of View. 😎🥀
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I got a bit carried away… 🙂
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Not at all. You were simply being True to Express yourself. 😎🥀
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Incredibly written and structured, for me there was no looking away, just total understanding of your powerfully honest words. An absolute awesome poem, and your pieces “in red had to be read”, brilliantly said !!
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Thank you Ivor. I’ve never been especially ladylike, but I was a bit uneasy about posting it, since I usually steer clear of obscenity, but I’m sure you know that it is an intrinsic part of the whole – a deliberate effort to shock. I’m pleased that you get it.
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Yep, I got it all, like a good piece of artwork, I saw the whole picture 🖼
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It’s even possible to make art from abuse 🙂 but that doesn’t excuse the abusers…
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Well said
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