Six Poems by Sarah Das Gupta

 

 

A Handful of Pomegranate Seeds

Abduction

The fields are a kaleidoscope of flowers,

Happily, we pick pale primroses protected

by leafy fingers of green. Bright crocuses,

an exotic carpet from Susa or Babylon.

The sunlight gilds the petals,

this field of gold stretches to a blue horizon.

An exquisite stem of narcissi,

its sweet scent carried on the breeze,

suddenly springs up at my feet.

A perfect day to fill a lifetime of dreams.

An ugly scar. Now an open wound,

yawns open in front of me.

A golden chariot leaps from

the dark bowels of the deep earth,

drawn by two coal black horses.

Spirits of darkness; creatures of the underworld,

manes woven from the night air. Necks arched,

rearing; prancing, hooves flashing.

Hades; fearful god of the shadowy dead;

ruler of the tortures of hell,

with his strong arms,

pulls me up to sit beside him.

My screams of terror echo loudly,

‘Demeter, Earth Goddess, Mother!’

 

Desolation

{Demeter mourns Persephone]}

She listened to the wind moaning,

crashing through the bare branches

of the dreary winter forests.

‘Why do you grieve?’

No answer came from the desolate

storm or the wind’s tears.

She looked out over the bleak ocean,

its waves thundering and broken

on the jagged rocks.

‘Why do you moan?’

No response from the disturbed sea.

Nothing but the moonlight

painting the crests with silver.

Helios looks down, the divine watchman.

‘What did you see, oh Helios?’

‘I saw Persephone, snatched by Hades,

to the world of the dead.’

My heart is broken.

In the sorrow of men,

I see my own suffering.

I wander in desolate places.

In the dark jungle, in dreary cities.

The grain is rotting in the earth,

the green shoots wither,

the granaries are empty.

In the olive groves,

the trees are barren.

No nightingales sing.

The food of the gods

to me, is poison.

 

Resurrection

In the dark gloom of Hades

I mourn my goddess mother

I reign, Queen of the Dead

but I long for the beauty of Spring,

The summer fields of wheat

The warmth of golden Helios,

pale moonlight on the wine- red sea.

My lord begs me to eat, but I fear

to eat is to never see the glorious sun,

never to gather the flowers of the valleys

never to see my beloved mother.

Reluctant, I accept six pomegranate seeds.

They are crushed in my mouth, slowly,

nervously, fatally, I swallow.

 

The earth opens, sunlight dazzles.

I kneel before my mother whose hair

gleams like the gold of the harvest.

As I walk, primroses bloom at my feet

narcissi and hyacinth mark my path.

My mother’s joy resurrects the dead land.

The green of spring, the warmth of summer

regenerate the valleys and the high pastures.

 

Separation

The last breath of summer

rustles the leaves and grasses.

My husband calls from the darkness.

I remember the taste of the pomegranate seeds

like sour cherries crunched in my mouth.

Demeter weeps, the autumn rain

begins to fall, snow clings to the peaks.

I am carried by the black horses of Death

to sit crowned with asphodel,

pale Queen of the Dead,                      

awaiting another spring.

 

Note

The source for this story is the Homeric Hymns. A set of 33 hymns to various deities which

dates from 7^th century BCE to the 5th century CE 

 

 

Summer Dalliance

Summer, season of love.

walking in the fields of paradise,

moonlit evenings, sound of distant waves,

voices from the sea of mythic lost lovers,

red wine and the song of the South.

Night scent, drifting from the garden.

Roses, exquisite, yet mercurial.

Red petals of over-powering desire,

winter thorns of rejection, loss.

 

In the fields the harvest is ready,

the stalks intertwined with poppies,

red hearts, awaiting execution, death,

ancient sacrifice for the golden corn. 

 

Lovers sit on green banks by the willow,

leaves, like strands of green hair,

in the river’s fast current.

 

Now the summer solstice,

mid-summer of frolic and magic.

Cattle are blest,

as the wheel rolls downhill,

to echo the sun’s great daily journey.

from that pale light beneath the curtains,

to the setting in the west

beyond the Garden of the Hesperides

where the spirits of twilight

guard the golden apples. 

 

 

Ancient Light

Now shades of notes from centuries past, blend with the organ. Outside the light is fading, softly illuminating ploughmen, bishops, knights and horses. These in turn are reflected on this choir boy’s surplice that old woman’s glasses. The light of this evening releases, ignites the light of the past, stored in the beauty of medieval stained glass. The Word, through the words of a distant time, is transposed into the immediacy of ‘now’. Darkness outside is now pressing against the glass. For a moment the candles flicker, only to burn steadily once more. The silence is splintered by the thunderous notes of the organ. Fragments of sound scatter, piercing the darkness beyond.

Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who started writing, aged 80, after a disabling accident. Her work has been published in over 25 countries in Journals and anthologies. She has recently been nominated for Best of the Net, the Pushcart and a Dwarf Star.