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The fruit is red, hard
–shelled and stubborn.
Resisting any tasting –
it holds tight its seed.
We buy one at the market,
you never having partook.
I tell you, monks dried them out;
sewed pomegranates to their cassocks,
dried bells that rattled as they walked about an otherwise quiet monastery.
As I say it, I can hear their dry rattle.
A snake in the garden.
The fruit is presented in simple brown bag, leaves still clinging, redolent of the country and of earth and tree.
We run fast home through the soft Paris rain,
so eager for this ritual.
Your mouth hungering for the taste.
With a knife I split hard the red fruit,
watch as the juice bleeds out
dip my finger to give you quick taste
which you suck clean off.
I like, is all you’ll say.
I show you how to scoop out the seeds,
How to get them by the spoonful.
You have already developed your own technique, split the rind in two, your mouth closing
about each seed, bitten, sucked and eaten. After, you rest on your haunches,
our lips fruited-pink;
It is only then that I know;
Love, I have pleased you well.


http://www.tantmieux.squarespace.com/
s.r.p., 2006


------
Sadi Ranson-Polizzotti

http://www.tantmieux.squarespace.com/
http://www.sottovocce.blogspot.com/
http://www.cabinetist.blogspot.com/


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The following comments are for "pomegranate - paris"
by sadijane

pomegranate
Hi Tap:

Thanks for all the pomegranate tips! they're actually really interesting... symbolism? if anything, this is a love poem of sorts... not obvious, but obvious in its way... does that make sense? - thanks for your kind words... :) - s.

( Posted by: sadijane [Member] On: February 9, 2006 )

Pomegranate musings
The thing I really love about this poem (somehow, I'm not sure about the fruit-sharing lovers - sailing too close to indulgent, perhaps?) is the image of the monks' dried pomegranate rinds. That is the moment of grace in the poem, for me. Is it really so? It takes me right back to a deserted farmhouse where I once pulled off the road for a picnic on a too-hot, going-nowhere day in Spain. The insect-empty gone-to-seed orchard, where last year's crops hung dessicated and gibbeted on neglected bushes. They too, rattled in the breeze. It was eerie, sunlight notwithstanding. I started a poem, I believe. Never finished it. Thank you for the renewed inspiration.

( Posted by: MobiusSoul [Member] On: February 9, 2006 )

...mood
Your comments about the poem are dead on, i think. The pomegranate sharing lovers _are_ too close, in this poem, they are cousins, and that may be the vibe you;re picking up on.

Your story is/was fascinating to me -- i could see it so visually. It would make a terrific poem, esp. since you can convey things so visually, like snapshots.... Write it!

be well,

sadi r-p

( Posted by: sadijane [Member] On: February 10, 2006 )

bang...
lucie, as ever, you are bang on the money. a private space where a partaking can take place... that is exactly right. There is something forbidden here (as represented by the fruit as well...) Thanks as ever, S.

( Posted by: sadijane [Member] On: February 13, 2006 )





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