"The Mango of Poetry"
by
Lorna Goodison
I read a book
about the meaning of poetry.
The writer defines it as silence,
then breaks the lines
to construct ideas
about the building of bridges,
the reconciliation of opposites.
I'm still not sure what poetry is.
But now I think of a ripe mango
yellow ochre niceness
sweet flesh of St. Julian,
and all I want to do
is to eat one from the tree
planted by my father
three years before the sickness
made him fall prematurely.
The tree by way of compensation
bears fruit all year round
in profusion and overabundance
making up for the shortfall
of my father's truncated years.
I'd pick this mango with a cleft stick,
then I'd wash it and go to sit
upon the front wall of our yard.
I would not peel it all back
to reveal its golden entirety,
but I would soften it by rolling
it slowly between my palms.
Then I'd nibble a neat hole
at the top of the skin pouch
and then pull the pulp
up slowly into my mouth.
I'd do this all while wearing
a bombay-colored blouse
so that the stain of the juice
could fall freely upon me.
And I say that this too would be
powerful and overflowing
and a fitting definition
of what is poetry.
[This message has been edited by Howard (edited February 28, 2006).]