Pomegranates
by Bushra Ali, Minaret College
Years 9 – 10 Performance Poetry Finalist
They stain,
not in simple ways that time or water can quietly erase, but in the kind of slow, deliberate permanence that makes you question whether opening up was ever courage at all, or only pain.
Because pomegranates do not break like ordinary fruit – they rupture with reluctant precision, as though even their destruction had been rehearsed in advance, and every red fragment is just the continuation of something that was always already splitting in two by chance.
I have watched them yield beneath insistent hands, not violently, but in ways refusal scarcely understands, until the fracture slowly gives itself away, and everything hidden beyond it’s. The scattered ruby always reaches farther than intended to remain, as though exposure itself possesses no restraint against the stain.
There is something almost sorrowful in the moment things divide, when every hidden, jeweled fragment spills itself outside, the crimson reaching farther than intention ever planned, threading evidence through porcelain and trembling hands. As for a moment it resembles strength more than ruin or mistake, until exposure leaves behind far more than it can take.
Red gathers everywhere, not dramatically, but with unsettling patience, threading into skin and sleeve, as though it never meant to stay contained, and never truly learned how to leave.
And maybe that is what unsettles me most: how something so small becomes proof instead of grace, how sweetness turns into confession once it is forced into an open space.
Because there is a kind of violence in being understood too completely, stripped of care, until every hidden part is laid out like evidence, raw and bare.
Even afterwards, long after the fruit has been reduced to its absence, it still refuses to leave, a memory pressed into fingertips and fabric, something the body continues to believe. And I think that is what pomegranates are, if you refuse to romanticise what breaks apart and is shown, not symbols of beauty, but proof that even the most contained things eventually become known.
How did writing this poem make you feel?
Writing this poem made me feel reflective andd somewhat vulnerable, as it required me to explore emotions that are difficult to express directly. It also made me realise how ordinary objects can carry deeper meanings when viewed through personal experience.
Which single line in your poem are you the absolute proudest of?
My favourite would definitely be “as though it never meant to stay contained, and never truly learned how to leave”. It turns that physical image into something emotional, suggesting that once something is exposed its impact can remain long after the moment itself has passed.
Describe your poem in three words
Visceral, introspective, haunting.
Where is your absolute favourite place to sit when you are brainstorming ideas?
In my bed, because it is comfortable and quiet.
What skills do you think you strengthened through writing this poem?
I strengthened my ability to create a cohesive piece where each idea connects naturally to the next. I also expanded my vocabulary by experimenting with more sophisticated and descriptive language.
Why do you think people write poetry?
I think people write poetry to express what ordinary language cannot fully capture. Poetry allows emotions, experiences and ideas to be explored with greater depth, using imagery and symbolism to give meaning to things that are often difficult to explain directly.