Consider the Pomegranate (Poem)

Annika Ruohonen, No, 2010

© Annika Ruohonen All Rights Reserved

Used With Permission of the Artist

Consider the Pomegranate

All I have is a voice / To undo the folded lie . . .
   ~ W.H. Auden, "September 1, 1939"

1

Consider the pomegranate
      this winter, peeled back, crimson-lipped

against gleamed teeth, each an ivory-handled knife
      slashing to pith, loosing the fruit's elixir,

staving hunger freed. Persephone's mouth Pluto stained,
      sealing her fate that she might mime not

spring but his own Hades six months of twelve.

2

Think of the Nile, candles on the water,
      luminaries jewel-cut, heat-polished,

fit to a crown for mourning's wear. What fabled
      kohl-eyed queen might stake, her sinuous

path to desert ends. Sphinx her secrets none
      betrayed, the asp held high and striking quick

her favors' protests, white jasmine veils so summoned, stilled.

3

Regard the signs that bullets make
      of dreams still falling in Cairo's streets,

rejoined on a bridge of martyrs, relayed
      in Alexandria split seconds before white smoke

succeeds the sound of metal against dry bone pierced,
      pieced, and quelled. What round of arms

in arms begins with chanting sweet street songs.

4

Imagine the taste of orange crossed
      with pomegranate, scarlet-jacketed,

seed-plucked, the juice half-blood-blushed, too
      soon anti-oxidant thin, a watered-down

wine dizzying bandaged heads held where desires
      mapped before lockdown, fidelity trapped in gesture,

rock and stick in hand, breach barriers in season's coldest month.

5

See who cannot be counted, their numbers
      tolling with every step advanced

before spinning turrets, their breaths, hoarsely formed, rising
      as hints of their morning selves, revealing code

in a fluttering of hands, tri-colored flags making
      their own love poems, streaming as water in a garden

in Babel, wind on the bridge carrying hopes like confetti.

6

Fix fast. The pomegranate once straight razor
      slashed becomes itself in pieces. Passed

hand to hand in Tahrir Square, its sections sweeten
      lips' loudest demands, bear fuel for the burning

on the ground; its skin, peeling away, discarded
      with the silence remanded in evening prayers

no longer holding firm.

© 2011 Maureen E. Doallas All Rights Reserved

______________________________

My deep appreciation for Annika Ruohonen, who allowed me to use her beautiful photograph to complement my poem. The image speaks to me of great strength and connection, of unbroken fidelity to ideals we all hold dear, of hope borne out of darkness.

I offer this poem for this week's "One Shot Wednesday" event at One Stop Poetry. Be sure to visit the site late Tuesday afternoon and every Wednesday for links to the many contributors' poems. Feel free to add your own.