Fruit – poem

'Fruit' poem by Eoin Rogers, Irish poetry, oranges, apples, lime, kiwi fruit -



My memories of fruit

Gleaming and shining with the

Vibrancy of crayon colours


Are betrayed

By irregular indentations and bruises,

Soft patches that ooze,

Ripe but flirting with rotten,

This blemished skin

The final and definite demarcation

Of each little insular character.

I enter with the violence of a gravedigger,

Intent to exhume the hidden, inner delights.

What fingertips and nails can’t claw open and rip

Knives will do.

I embrace their embalmed flesh in

The dark and silent chamber of the tongue

And there, each one, can come alive

On the terms of their own flavour

Finally able to express themselves.

Pomegranate seeds huddled like bats

Against waxy skin that cracks when ripped

Taste almost sardonic

Acknowledging the triteness of the world,

Thinly sweet, self-assured.

Pineapple’s thick and easy juice,

Familiar as friends’ throaty laughter

Induces relaxation in

Trills of springing sweet relief.


The expense of excavation grows

As the mound of discarded remains,

Damp and sticky, struggles upwards,

A slick rainbow of juice running down the

Knife strokes in the chopping board.

I see it as seeds crack between my teeth.


Passion fruits sluggish frogspawn

Squeals when bitten but

Any bitter reproach peters out into the

Dull throbbing of a tropical remembrance.


Mango flesh offers the most resistance

But with reluctance offers the

Soft fragrance of pine needles.

Its centre stone eventually lies

Fizzing in my mouth and

When bitten hard and pried open

Reveals a hollow compartment

And there within

In the brown and white

Of soil and bone I find

Its seed of potential,

Slightly curled like a bean or foetus.

I have achieved audience with fruit

And discard the inedible pulp

But the memory of their taste is

Still on my lips,

Their ghostly giggles

Faintly ring

In the pit of my mouth.

It is the price of such

Soft, deliberate murder.