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RedRiot Jun 2022
Iodine. Or rather, iodine tincture. As a young child, I didn't really understand what iodine tincture was. All I knew was that it was a funny reddish color, it was cold, and my grandfather always had it with him. Whenever I was injured, with little scrapes and bruises on my elbows and knees, a small vial of iodine tincture suddenly materialized in my grandfather's hand. I remember quiet moments in the summer, when I sat propped up on the bed, watching in fascination as my grandfather placed two small drops of the liquid on to my knee, rubbing it in with a cotton ball. As soon as the iodine touched my knee, all my pain went away. Looking back, I'm not sure how effective that tiny bottle actually was, but to five year old me, the iodine tincture was a magical potion, and my grandfather was the wizard who wielded it.

Pomegranate seeds. I'm sure most of us are familiar with the white little seeds encased by the beautifully red and juicy pomegranate 'arils' (don't worry, I had to look that word up too). Peeling the pomegranate skin off to reach the edible fruit itself is already such a hassle -- who has the time to take out the seeds? They are a minor inconvenience, and so we pop the whole jewel into our mouths. But when I think of pomegranate seeds, I think of Dadun, my dearest grandfather. I remember sitting in a very unstable plastic chair that I would intentionally rock back and forth, testing the limits of gravity. I remember a cool breeze that would shake the leaves of trees , providing some reprieve from the hot summers in Kolkata, India. Dadun and I would sit in the shade of the monoon tree, which cast shadows in a small corner of our balcony. I would prop my small feet onto his knees, excitedly chattering away as he quietly listened. In his hands he held two bowls. One bowl had half a pomegranate, and the other held the small arils. One by one, he somehow extracted each white seed and tossed it back into the first bowl. Within a half hour, I had in front of me a clean bowl of seedless pomegranate arils, carefully prepared by my grandfather. I would of course completely wolf down the entire bowl of sweet fruit in far less time than it took to extract the fruit. Dadun would always have a satisfied smile on his face afterwards, knowing that he had made my day.

Jackfruit. It's a weird thing. In some American stores, I've only ever seen canned jackfruit, which looks, smells, and tastes weird. In some Asian stores, I've seen the actual fruit, but it's always either got a weird starchy flavor, or the fruit itself is far too small. In Kolkata, that's where it's just right. Jackfruit in Kolkata can weigh almost 100 pounds. Beyond the spiky exterior lies a very unique gem of a fruit. It is sticky like a mango, smells far sweeter than a durian, and tastes like nothing else you've ever experienced. It is bright yellow, and a common staple in households. I remember every time we visited Kolkata, one random morning I would wake and sit at the dining table, and everyone would be making a funny face. My grandfather would be seated in a shirt and khakis, an indication that he had been outside, as it was different from the simple blue lungi he generally wore. He'd look away to the opposite direction, almost as if he were guilty about something. My grandmother would be in the kitchen angrily cleaning, yelling about how my grandfather had no considerations for her, no logic, etc. etc. My mother would be silently laughing into her palm. And in the next moment, out of nowhere Dadun would pull out a GIANT jackfruit and place it right on to the table. My face would immediately light up and I would gleefully laugh. Dadun didn't mind getting yelled at by my grandmother for going out early in the morning just to lug this ridiculously large fruit into the house. It was worth it when he saw me laughing, and he would join in with his deep bellowing HA HA HA. Together we'd laugh at the sheer ridiculousness that was the jackfruit, and the sheer ridiculousness that was inevitably going to be us eating the entire thing, piece by piece.

Load-shedding. When I was young, people would say the word so fast, as in "Are, load-sheddding hoyeche", I hadn't even realized it was an english phrase. The official definition is the distribution of power to lessen the load on a source, but I equated it to a power outage, which is incredibly common across all of India. The outages were not necessarily predictable, and although they were often disruptive, they were simply a part of life. People were accustomed to them, and everyone just worked around them. At night, the power outages were far more noticeable. Any lights in the house would shut off, shrouding everything in complete darkness. The loud fans, which were often the only source of cooling air, would stop spinning, and the sudden silence that crept into the room was difficult to ignore. With the absence of the fan, the sweltering, muggy heat of the night also became more pronounced. On nights like these, I would be abruptly shaken awake by my mother, who would hand me a small flashlight and instruct me to go into my grandparents room, where the open balcony allowed for more ventilation. There, I would find Dadun, already awake and sitting in a plastic chair, with a pakha in hand. I would sleepily join him on the balcony, as he fanned my face with the pakha, narrating small stories until I fell back asleep. I don't remember the discomfort of those nights, only that without fail, Dadun was always there.

I don't know what my grandfather was like in his younger years. I've been told he was a righteous man, very disciplined and stern. When he was angered, the earth would quake. I've heard from some that he was proud, sometimes too much. I know that he had come from nothing, and that he had overcome numerous obstacles to make something of himself. He had been rich in many ways, and sometimes that had made him both friends and enemies.

I know what my grandfather was like in his last moments, and I choose to ignore it. I choose to forget that although I stood right by him days before he passed, he could not truly see me, and he had no idea his beloved granddaughter was right there. I choose to forget that he could not get out of bed, or speak clearly, or feed and bathe himself. I choose to forget that he had no recollection of when and where he was.

What I know, and choose to remember, about Dadun is that when I was younger he regaled me with tales of science and Hindu religion, somehow connecting what I had perceived as two very different identities. He taught me to be proud of my heritage. No matter how stern he had been in his youth, all I remember is the vigor and openness with which he laughed with me. I remember his bone crushing hugs in which he towered over me and held me close, almost as though he was trying to absorb me into his very being. I remember how he quietly observed me and my little sister at all hours of the day, as though he feared he would never see us again. And I remember that he called me Diya. In a soft and gentle voice, he would ask, "Diya, kamon achish?" "Diya, choroi bethe". "Diya, ki korchish?" Diya, Diya, Diya. No one will ever call me by that name again, but how lucky am I to have been called that at all? Iodine, pomegranate seeds, jackfruit, and load-shedding. Funny little reminders that Dadun loved me with his entire heart and soul. How fortunate am I to have experienced that kind of precious love?

Dadun, amader porer jibone abar dakha hobe.
Joseph Normand Nov 2011
It's funny how many people
will gather around
just to see one man on a building.

They don’t even know me
I barely even know me.

I’ve seen the gate but I've
never entered it;
never could find the **** key.

It's sick really,
they’re not here
because they care
they don’t even know who I am.

They just want to
partake in ritual sacrifice.

I’ll die like a Viking
a heroic death in combat.
I’ll be caught by Valkyries.

My body will be
of fire
and I will steal their children’s innocence.

They can shield their eyes,
but I’ll
scar the Earth,
I’ll
paint her red.

A mural with my brain.

And they can see everything that’s inside.

I’ll break the **** door
right off its hinges.
You can’t make people care,
but you can force them to see.


It's cold up here,
and the city is beautiful:
constructs of man
breaking the sky.

And me, in her.

At least the wind
is on my side,
the defiled king left to die
in a labyrinth of stone.

The sewers as my
burial crypt,
rats and snakes
******* my blood.

But the remnants of a soul
long forgot
still feeds the mouths that
rely on the few with food.

Their stomachs ache and
their hearts pound to
the beat of one drum.
A drum that beckons me to the edge.


Who am I to starve the hungry?


They don’t need a break,
they need to push harder.
I planted the trees.
I planted the oak
and I killed the yew.

I’ve tasted its arils
and made peace with the Ibis
that guided me here.
And as it watches me
with craned neck,
and bent beak

I leave my throne
and descend to water those
whose shade I will never sit beneath.
Part 1 of "Ode to the Seven Virgins"
sweet ridicule Nov 2017
Drops of red drip down my hand it
(looks like blood)
sweet red juice
the cold water is numbing my tingling
hands as I separate arils from peel
one popping bright red jewel at a time
I am learning to be patient with
(traffic and fruit peeling and anger)
myself
this sink room smells like burnt
ramen and popcorn and my socks
stick to the ***** floor
sitting on the ground
against the wall
If this is all there is I swear
I will be happy
Devan Proctor Mar 2011
Yew
Aligned on arrowed spine, the stance of the warrior does not stir in his thin and scaly armor. Emitting essence, breath, and a deadliness soaking his spiraled lanceolates, ridden with toxic seed, he deceives the thrushes pursuing arils. They are soon surprised by death in the guise of life. Catuvolvus, as well, cast himself away by consuming fatal seed, taken by war-pride, released by yew. The raw assassin is prepared to vanquish beast and bird, to still-battle strangers amongst his ages. And yet, he wields an ancient light. In peace, he guides departed shadows home.
Juneau Aug 2014
When the leaves shrivel,
flowers faint and die.
Harvest must be gathered,
signs that winter is nigh.

"Why's the land fallow?"
We'd ask of the Earth.
She shifts on her axis,
sways her great girth.
      
  There used to be stories,
about the changes you see.
They blamed it on Hades,
when he tricked Persephone.

She had taken six arils,
of which she did eat.
Hades grinned gladly,
upon his great seat.

They said she's doomed,
for six months a year.
To serve below ground,
Earth's kind left in fear.

Chimera existed!
People would believe.
The fantastic in real life,
has taken its leave.

Now we have science,
and it's true what it's told.
But we've lost all the magic,
in the world we behold.

Content while I sit here,
on a cool Autumn night.
We have kept it alive,
in the things that we write.
March 27, 2012
Sixth
Lyn-Purcell Jun 2020

Daughter of harvest
Warm spring hands beckons death's breath
Arils strokes her lips


Another day, another woman of myth poem!
This haiku is dedicated to Persephone, one of my all-time favourite greek goddesses.
I grew up with the variant of her being abducted...
I always did feel for her.
I'm really enjoying this series, my list grows by the day!
Be back soon with more!
Here's the link for the growing collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/132853/the-women-of-myth/
Much love,
Lyn 💜

— The End —