Ode
to a pomegranate
They say you’re an apple
With many seeds but
I know you’re more than that.
Long ago in Ancient Rome
The emperor wore clothes
Dyed by your ancestors
Do you know that?
Many people survive on you
They consider you a symbol of
Plenty and passionate love
But I know there is
Lots more about you.
You help the heart patients
And women in labor.
Your colour is the
Colour of my blood.
Your sweet, tangy and juicy
Taste reminds me of
So many good things
And that’s why I say
There is lot more about you.
You are the painting
Of not only my flawless skin
But also my smile.
You are the heart of
A beautiful lady.
A mother.
Madonna della Melagrana (Madonna of the Pomegranate) -- Sandro Botticelli
With many seeds but
I know you’re more than that.
Long ago in Ancient Rome
The emperor wore clothes
Dyed by your ancestors
Do you know that?
Many people survive on you
They consider you a symbol of
Plenty and passionate love
But I know there is
Lots more about you.
You help the heart patients
And women in labor.
Your colour is the
Colour of my blood.
Your sweet, tangy and juicy
Taste reminds me of
So many good things
And that’s why I say
There is lot more about you.
You are the painting
Of not only my flawless skin
But also my smile.
You are the heart of
A beautiful lady.
A mother.
Madonna della Melagrana (Madonna of the Pomegranate) -- Sandro Botticelli
Christians used the pomegranate as an allegory of the Church which gathered its believers. Painters of the Renaissance often put a pomegranate in the hand of the baby Jesus as a symbol of the new life offered to humanity. In the same way that its seed causes the birth of a new plant, it signified his resurrection, while the fruit, broken or bursting open, symbolizes the fullness of his suffering.
ReplyDeleteAndrew Hudgins has commented on the painting:
MADONNA OF THE POMEGRANATE
After Botticelli
They crowd the blue triangle of the Madonna –
these adolescents who are also angels,
eyes staring everywhere but straight ahead,
absorbed in the changeless commerce of their world.
They’re much like us. Some curiosities.
The wings that curve upward from their backs
are such unwieldy limbs – pure ornament –
you’d know that Botticelli made them up
even if you believed in messengers
with human wings. Where are the muscles
to lift an eighty-pound school girl in the air?
And even if the wings are miracles
how do they get their tunics over them?
But wings aside, the angels look like kids.
One gossips, one has hard suspicious eyes,
and several wear the slightly stupid look
most children wear when contemplating babies.
Madonna doesn’t notice them. She’s vague,
thin-faced, eyes drifting downward to the left,
a virgin holding her first child, cradling
him on the tips of her long fragile fingers
as if she isn’t sure where he came from –
so beautiful he almost isn’t flesh.
Thus only Christ, unwavering, looks at us,
his left hand resting on a pomegranate
that splashes ruby light into the air,
his right hand raised in blessing or a wave
as he forgives us for not being art
or says goodbye since he will live forever.