Melons

There is a wealth of melons, now, in every market, round and pleasing in the hands. More melons than I knew there were, and more than I can sample to determine which is best.

Algerian
Navajo yellow
canary
cantaloupe
casaba
crenshaw
charantais
Christmas
crane
wax
winter
yellow watermelon
xigua
derishi
galia
honeydew
horned
musk
net
ogen
pepino
Persian
Russian/Uzbek
Santa Claus
Sharlyn
sweet
tree (papaya)
Tuscan
watermelon (seedless and otherwise)
yubari
Eel River
piel de sapo

And then the bitter melon, which features in sambals and in this poem with its amiable title, reminiscent of Basho and his travels.

Traveling with a Bitter Melon
by Ping-Kwan Leung (Hong Kong)
Translated by Martha Cheung

I cooked it at noon,
sliced it, then stir-fried it.
It was delicious, a little bitter, a little sweet
carrying the good wishes you brought with you from another place.
On your way back you had it for company.
It must have gradually turned tender and soft beside you.
How did you carry it?
Did you check it in? Or hand-carry it?
Did it look about curiously in the plane? Did it
cry because of hunger? Did it get airsick?
I said it was raining outside; you said where you were
it was sunny, you were about to set off to my city
so you thought you could bring it with you, carry it
across different climates, different customs and manners.
I believed you when I set eyes on it,
thanks to you I saw its color— so unique.
In what climate and soil did it grow and from what species?
This child from a poor family has grown into a body like jade;
has an endearing character, kind of a soft gentle white,
not dazzling, but glowing as if from within.
I took this white bitter melon with me onto the plane
and arrived at a foreign land, stepped onto foreign soil;
only at Customs did I wonder if anyone had asked you:
why isn't it green like most bitter melons?
As they examined its dubious passport, ready to stir up trouble
the innocent newcomer waited patiently, a heavy past on his shoulders,
while it remained endearing as ever, neither bitter nor sour,
but gently making allowances for those overworked and disgruntled
weary-eyed grim-faced immigration officials.
I took it with me and went on and on, like my words, further and
further off the mark, trying harder to be inclusive —
because I didn't want to leave out any details, about how a bitter melon
tossed and turned at night, missing its mates,
gasping – was it torn by memories of that
familiar place under the melon-shed, by feelings some may find trivial?
You're so kind towards my clumsy language habits, when I asked:
when will you be back? You just said:
when will you go? One leaving, one
returning. You accepted the tenses I used,
tenses slippery and imprecise. I always eat bitter melons.
I ate one before I boarded the plane.
Why then did it come all that way back to my table?
Did it want to tell me the bitterness of separation? Of frustration?
Did it want to let me know it had a tumor? That its face
was wrinkled with loneliness?
That it kept having bad nights, kept waking in the early hours
and with open eyes waited for the arrival of dawn? In the rippling
silence, was it telling me it was illness that made it bitter,
or its inability to make whole the fragments of history?
Or was it the bitterness of being misunderstood by strangers,
of being misplaced in a hostile world?
It still looked so translucent, like white-jade,
so soothing the thought of savoring it eased one's nerves.
I was saying what everyone should say,
expressing amidst lucid phrases what I wanted to say
in confused sentences. Alone, I set the table,
the ocean between us; how I yearned to be with you
and share with you the refreshing melon.
There are so many things that do not live up to expectations.
The human world has its imperfections.

image: Half cut of Yubari melon, Captain76