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  • Writer's pictureKate Clinch

The Little Pomegranate


Little pomegranate, I choose you because you are small enough to fit cupped in my hand.

Your pale cheek reminds me of the pallor of illness, of haemorrhaging, of hovering near the portals of death, and of the pallor of slow healing. Hiding the crimson of your living flesh. Hiding the seeds which can only be revealed after the cutting of your body, the crushing of your fruit, seeds which may sprout manured by the rotting of all that was visible, all that seemed to be your living vessel.

Little pomegranate, symbol of life in the underworld.

Reminder of Persephone who was dragged to Hades; of Hades’ greed; of a mother’s grief.

Little pomegranate, I hold you in my hands, symbol of hope springing eternal.

I turn you, watching the light reflect off your pallid cheek.

Little pomegranate, you have beguiled me. You set your pale cheek towards me: did you know it would make me choose you?

As I turn you in my hand, I see your other cheek is flushed red with the promises of life.

 

 

That little pomegranate spoke to me. Not spoke exactly, not with words. She spoke in symbols and colours and meaning. Communication beyond words.

And in that silence, a flow of words came, a flowering of words, a stream of consciousness, that was a dialogue and a soliloquy, because my communication with her used words, and she replied in the silence by taking me a little deeper and showing me a little more, a new connection, another facet.

And my flow of words responded.

And I chose to write it down.

And I part of me thought, no, this journaling exercise is not about a conversation with a pomegranate. It’s meant to be about my hopes and dreams and heart’s desires. And my heart’s desire is to have an embodied relationship with God. That’s what I should be journaling about.

But one thing experience has taught me, is to write where the ‘heat’ is, and I trust that, so I write my poem about the pomegranate.

And it’s good.

So I reflect. If I can dialogue so easily with a pomegranate, why is it so hard for me to dialogue with God?

And somewhere, God chuckles. But so quietly I can’t hear, because God doesn’t want to hurt my feelings and will wait until I am ready to enjoy the joke.

So, little pomegranate, did you really speak with me? And if you did, who gave you a voice?

And Kate, what do you expect? What would confirm for you that God was speaking in that silence? Can you see God in the subtle silence? Or do you need burning bushes and tongues of flame?

And now I hear God laughing, and I laugh too, while the pomegranate holds her tongue.

God beguiled me into being beguiled by a pomegranate because God knew that was how I would be able to hear what He wanted to say.

We always knew, pomegranates don’t talk.



 

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