Welcome to another edition of "Poetry that doesn't suck." In this installment, we are focusing on a fruit whose season has recently ended, but whose juice can be enjoyed at any time of the year. I hope you are ready for this.

“Pomegranate” by D. H. Lawrence does not suck for several reasons, not the least of which is its colorful references to things like ancient Venice, royalty, and broken hearts. And anyone who can use “integument” sensibly while talking about how beautiful a broken heart can be deserves a second look.

As a member of that elite group known as “Masters of both prose and poetry,” Lawrence cannot rightly be ignored, even if you think he’s naught but that so-called dirty mind behind Lady Chatterly’s Lover.

I admit, the first reason I bothered paying attention to this poem was its apparent subject matter, because pomegranates are wonderful, tough outside with a hidden trove of jewels. Delicious jewels. If you do not like pomegranates, this poem may be less effective for you.

Pomegranate
D. H. Lawrence

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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*This is where things get confusing. I think the book this poem comes from just falls into the public domain, as best I can tell, so I have no qualms about posting the poem here. If I'm wrong, I'm willing to be corrected and fix this post-haste. Etc etc disclaimer disclaimer.