forbidden fruit

Last night I read an account of the quiz show scandal of the 50's by Charles Van Doren in the New Yorker. The end of his story involves the Redford movie - which I have always liked. It has to be something like a modern myth: Mark Van Doren - the famous father; the golden and carefree son; the temptation of money - or whatever; and the aftermath of shame and banishment.

Tonight, I chanced on this brief tale from Ovid:


Ascalaphus - by Ciaran Carson after Ovid

Proserpina ate seven pomegranate seeds. So what? I'll
           tell you what--
It doesn't do to touch strange fruit, when it's forbidden
           by the Powers
That be. Who put you on a hunger strike, which if you
           break, you'll stay put
In the Underworld. It doesn't do to get caught out.
           Watch out for prowlers.

She'd wandered into Pluto's murky realm; plucked the
           dull-orange bubble.
Split the cortex. Sucked. And who was salivating in the
           bushes' dark interior
But Ascalaphus. Stoolie. Pipsqueak. Mouth. He spilled
           the beans on her, he blabbed--
Straight off he shot, and knocked, knocked, knocked
           on Heaven's iron door.

But she spat back as good as she had got: unholy water
           from the Phlegethon
She slabbered on him. His eyes yellowed, drooled and grew.
           His neb became a beak.
He sprouted spermy wings. Hooked talons shot from his
           fingers. His body dwindled
Into mostly head. All ears, all eyes: touts everywhere,
           potential freaks,

Beware. For now he is the scrake-owl, Troubles' augury
           for Auld Lang Syne,
Who to this day is harbinger of doom, the gloom of
           Pluto's no-go zone.


And another take on it.