D. H. Lawrence
Pomegranate
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About the print version
Pomegranate
The Dial, Vol. 70
D. H. Lawrence
First edition
317-318
Dial Publishing Company, Inc.
New York
March 1921
Published: 1921
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Pomegranate
You tell me I am wrong.
Who are you, who is anybody, to tell me I am wrong?
I am not wrong.
In Syracuse, rock left bare by the viciousness of Greek women,
No doubt you have forgotten the pomegranate trees in flower,
Oh, so red, and such a lot of them.
Whereas at Venice,
Abhorrent, green, grey-bearded,
Whose Doges were old and had ancient eyes,
In the dense foliage of the inner garden,
Pomegranates like bright green stones,
And barbed, barbed with a crown,
Oh, horrible crown, of spiked green metal,
Actually were growing.
Now, in Tuscany
Pomegranates to warm your hands at,
Braziers,
And crowns,
Kingly, generous, tilting crowns,
Over the left eyebrow.
And, if you dare, the fissure!
Do you mean to tell me you will see no fissure?
You prefer to look on the plain side?
For all that, the setting suns are open
The last day fissured open with to-morrow,
Rosy, tender, glittering within there.
Do you mean to tell me there should be no fissure?
No glittering compact drops of dawn?
Do you mean it is wrong, the gold-filmed skin, integument, shown ruptured?
For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken.
It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic, within the crack.
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