It's just poetry, it won't bite

The Poemgranate


11.23.09 Posted in words to linger on by

Cassie Premo Steele is an award-winning poet and writer, who has authored 5 books and hundreds of poems and essays on mothering, creativity, healing, and nature. She has taught in university and community settings for 13 years and now leads workshops and coaches individuals through her Co-Creating business. Her column Birthing the Mother Writer appears regularly at Literary Mama and you can find more information about her work at her Web site. Her poem What the tree has seen appeared in Contributor Series 1: 9/11. This poem combines elements of myth and quest with a maternal sense of loss of border. It tells its story using lovely language and clear imagery and places the reader in the center of the universal narrative of journey.

The Poemgranate
By Cassie Premo Steele

It is fall, the time after the beginning.
Not spring, not one thing in its infancy.
No fantasy of pregnancy or baby again.

I am in a hotel room, far from home.
Next door a baby cries. The mama
Coos her sweet southern comfort.

I did this with you, when you were young.
I ran like Persephone, but with a baby,
Smoky Mountains, New Mexico plains,

Boston, and beaches–we’ve seen the insides
Of hotel rooms turned tombs as I tried
To get what all mothers want, peace

And quiet. I would put you on the floor,
My lily, my orchid, my crocus, let you
Play with plastic cups, suck from multiple

Bottles, anything for one moment
When I could look away without fear
Of falling or choking or hurt.

It is fall, the time after the beginning.
Not spring, not one thing in its infancy.
No fantasy of pregnancy or baby again.

You are no baby anymore, at eight
You have fallen from grace
Many times–not from your mother

But from yourself, which is worse.
I mourn like Demeter, even though
You are still here. You inherited

More than my eyes: my vision,
My moods, my hungers, my cycles
And sins. They live in your skin.

You told me last week you had waited
For thousands of years in the sky
For a mother who would take you in.

Me, I said, smiling, I was the best one.
And then you stuck in the pin: No,
You were the only one to be so dumb.

It is fall, the time after the beginning.
Not spring, not one thing in its infancy.
No fantasy of pregnancy or baby again.

I have no flowers to welcome you back,
No seeds to plant, no chants to make
You whole again. I am human.

Not a goddess with magic or power
To create seasons that mirror
My immense sorrow, your great need.

All I can do is to feed my desire
For solitude, find a way back
To myself through these words

That I harvest like fruits, plucked
From my head, cut open in bed,
And eaten, forbidden or not.

Seeds and core, peel and stem, entire.
It is with this poemgranate that I might
Make myself, mother, whole again.



3 Responses to “The Poemgranate”

  1. Jean says:

    Wow. Just–wow; an amazing poem.Thank you for sharing it, Cassie.

  2. Linda says:

    LOVE your award winning poem..
    Moves me to tears..happy tears….tears none the less….Thank you for being you…………..

  3. Bobbie Troy says:

    Yes, amazing and awesome. Life is poetry.

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