Me-fig / Blandine Longre

This poem was first published in issue 3 of The Black Herald (September 2012) as a harsh homage / somewhat antagonistic response to D. H. Lawrence’s poem “Figs”, before appearing in the collection Cosmographia (2015).


The fig is a very secretive fruit.

As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic

— D. H. Lawrence (‘Figs’, 1923)

Split is my essence,

born at stump

—the schism adamant

beneath blatant shallow

at teeth’s length held

For moist is moist is no secret

not more than membrane unpurpled to rottenness &

ripe is ripe is just plain fact&decay

(unless fitting the plunderer’s fruitless symbol through

frightfulness gone sour) so much

as burst is burst is no statement

(yet to suit male-cracks nullified, female-slits

should the sole meaning convey shouldn’t

they—but hear: feel is feel is not enough as much as should is not what is)

The visiblest (let this be uttered) being—at word-core—

none other

than: a trick of reddish bright (in inertia unsecreted)

beheld & aimed at mighty

shadows—their boldless unambiguous

imaginings (maimed idiom of half-sniffed

postulates) placing

my so ordinary scarlet (o so misembodied) within

vacant fangs’ reach

whilst my most fluent

crimson (kept & held ineffable beyond naked motion)

more breath-grown

than suckling earth

(& whose fleeting anatomy as a

not-meant-to-be-grasped deciphering

demands a sharp craft)

shall persist unblossomed & lost to

the womb-obsessed to the obvious-starved

to the dry-fingered

mis-split eater.

Tomás Hiepes, Still Life with Figs, 1649