Poetry Thursday: tomato-love
Tomatoes.
Fruit? Vegetable? Red. Delicious. However you classify them, they are my favorite. And, apparently, Pablo Neruda's too. And my tomatoes are all beginning to ripen, and it makes me happy. Enjoy some tomato poetry today:
Ode to the Tomato
The street
filled with tomatoes
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
assassinate it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera,
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhausible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth,
recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and the totality of its freshness.
--Pablo Neruda
Doesn't this poem make you want to go assassinate some tomatoes right now?
Fruit? Vegetable? Red. Delicious. However you classify them, they are my favorite. And, apparently, Pablo Neruda's too. And my tomatoes are all beginning to ripen, and it makes me happy. Enjoy some tomato poetry today:
Ode to the Tomato
The street
filled with tomatoes
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
assassinate it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera,
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhausible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth,
recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and the totality of its freshness.
--Pablo Neruda
Doesn't this poem make you want to go assassinate some tomatoes right now?
4 comments:
Ahh it's tomato time here NOW, not December, thank God. I love 'em warm right off the vine. Can you BELIEVE I married someone who thinks they're poisonous?
I saw Russ at the sink the other day and I knew he was eating something juicy. I naturally thought it was a peach and ran over to get a bite since they are my favorite. I drew near and realized he was sinking his teeth into a giant beefsteak tomato. The juice as running down his chin and he looked so happy. I, however, was repulsed. :) But I realize some people very much enjoy these prolific fruit so I'm happy for all of you, really.
I can't believe Connie doesn't like tomatoes!!! So Sad!
I love this poem! It made me smile. :) Mmmmmm fresh garden grown tomatoes. Nothing compares!
Love this!
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