La pomme de terre,
the potato, the earth apple,
its womb a warmth of ground,
unable to tempt the eyes
of unfallen man.
The apple, la pomme,
kept cool among the branches
by an evening’s autumn sky,
painted so very often,
the centre of our lore.
In French they’re more poetic,
sounding
that much better
on the ear,
no bitter taste
that settles
on the tongue,
no judgement on their worth.
Le poѐme,
the poem,
that hovers in the vacant space
between,
the fruit of ground and tree,
the one I wish I’d render
en Français,
to mask the many flaws
that come when beauty
can’t be seen.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
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