(based on a ceramic plate from Chapelle-aux-Pots)
 
 

I'll tell you a story in majolica;

purplish red and red come alive

in my majolica, the tale

of Mother Pomegranate.
 
 

Mother Pomegranate is old

and toasty like a French roll,

but her faithful crown consoles her,

the insatiable bounty of her tree.
 
 

Her deep house is divided

by slim lakes

where her children caper in ships

dressed in red, in scarlet.
 
 

With red passion, she adorns them,

using the same chasuble-skin;

and to prevent fatigue, Mother Pomegranate

never names or counts her seeds.
 
 

The overcrowded one

leaves her door ajar,

and the hemmed-in multitude breaks free;

she grew weary of sustaining their mansion.
 
 

And the children

of the purple one run away.

Mother Pomegranate remains

slumbering, empty…
 
 

They go off like ants,

extending themselves in threads,

equal, equal, equal,

a scarlet river of choirboys.
 
 

They arrive at the solemn cathedral,

and open the great iron door;

the babes of Mother Pomegranate

file in like tiny lobsters.
 
 

In the cathedral,

there are as many naves

as chambers in the pomegranate;

the choirboys come and go

in great waves of discovery.
 
 

A ruddy cardinal recites his work

with his back turned, armadillo-like.

A million choirboys incline

and rise to a voice.
 
 

The red stained glass windows

gaze back at them from high above,

with vivacious eyes,

like thirty red pheasants

with surprised hearts.
 
 

Bells begin to fly,

awakening the entire tiny valley;

they sound like red and garnet –

a castle on fire.
 
 

In chaos, the babes zoom

to the scandal of bronze;

they leap down onto the avenue

which appears stained with blood.
 
 

The city sleeps late,

and the poor one knows nothing;

the children abandon the streets

and with laughter return

to the country.
 
 

They arrive at her trunk,

quietly climb

and enter Mother Pomegranate’s compartment;

in her they remain still

as the stone of Kaaba.
 
 

Mother Pomegranate wakes up brimming,

plump with her simple red million;

she checks her balance for safety’s sake,

and taps her pregnant pocket.
 
 

And Mother Pomegranate begins counting

and continues wondrously counting;

the children erupt in laughter

and she splits open with their guffaws.
 
 

The pomegranate split open

in the orchard

is a complete feast of fire;

we slice her and keep

the heart of hearts under her crown.
 
 

We place her on a white plate;

her blush of dreams

sounds an alarm.

Now I've told her story,

in shades of red,

in scarlet.
 
 

Majolica – a type of ceramic -
 
 
 

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Page last edited February 14, 2000
by: PhoneBoy