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Arthur McHugh

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Buah Delima

In Malay: in English, pomegranate;
to the Romans, a sort of apple that

came from Carthage, malum Punicum. Here
on the table, a crowned globe, no odour,

russet, quite heavy: a distant cousin
or the potato or Spanish onion?

No, its upside down. On the branch, it grows
flowers, white or coral-red, pendulous

and abundant, below the leathery
round of the rind. Slice into it; now see

those innumerable, wedge-shaped seeds, each
with its ruby vesicle, squashed in such

juicy density. Sour-and-sweet the taste
of this many-chambered miracle. Best

eat it all, since one of these seeds (they say
in India) will bring longevity,

but who knows which? One pomegranate-seed
Persephone consumed among the dead,

sufficed to keep her from the living light;
the tree was known to star-crossed Juliet —

it grew close by her balcony; this fruit,
Mohammed thought, could purge the heart of hate;

a pomegranate-pair, in China, means
good fortune and fertility. Like skeins

of yam, the pomegranate fables wind
far back through myth and history: legend

and Holy Writ agree that Solomon
possessed such trees; many a Christian

Madonna is portrayed - enthroned, sublime -
holding this symbol of the life to come;

and, with the Pyramids not yet complete,
a poetess of Ancient Egypt wrote

“Sweet pomegranate wine is in my mouth...”

 

Arthur McHugh has had original poetry and translations published in magazines throughout the UK. He has won a number of poetry competitions in Birmingham and elsewhere.

Page(s) 37

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