Pomegranate: A poem in honour of the launch of the Pomegranate Charity tonight

Today is National Infertility Day and it coincides with the launch of the wonderful charity Pomegranate . Pomegranate raises funds for those who cannot afford expensive infertility treatment but who yearn for a child; and it also raises awareness of the issues surrounding infertility.
Without SIMS Clinic we would not have been able to have our beloved son. The idea that others are denied the services of such clinics, because of the expense, is tragic. We were extremely fortunate. If you do nothing else today read the Pomegranate website, and donate - no matter how small an amount, you will be helping end the pain of infertility for some future parent. (I have no connection with Pomegranate other than thinking they're a great cause.)

Pomegranate's launch is tonight at 7pm in the Russell Court Hotel (Dicey Reilly’s) on Harcourt Street, Dublin 2. Guest speakers will be Conor Pope of the Irish Times and Steve McGettigan of the Sims clinic.

Pomegranate

When they talk of it

It is assumed, only the fecund know

Where the heart lies

When it comes to babies,

When it comes to birth,

When it comes to dreams

Of sticky hands and kisses.

Oh no, no, we the Barren,

We too understand these joys.

We yearn for them in ways

Only we can understand

We are steeped in the mysteries of pain.

Oh but your words can sting us

Anything stirring? No news for us?

Sure would you not relax?

My sister’s neighbour’s cousin’s friend

Got pregnant using the scapula of some saint

 you probably should have tried when you were younger –

I’d never go to those lengths

Ah we know the heart of it all right

We hold their little hands and kiss their brows

A thousand times in our dreams

And the sweet drug of hope

Lulls us into the arms of sleep

Dark night, after night.

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