Saturday, June 25, 2011

Oda al Tomate

 
 Ode To Tomatoes by Pablo Neruda
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
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
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 on!
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 cool completeness. 
 
 my days are filled with the abundant gifts
from friends and neighbors who labor in their gardens
and share the fruits of their bounty with me
THANK YOU
~gazpacho~ratatouille~marinara~salsa~

6 comments:

Marit said...

It's been a long time since I tasted a tomato like this! I could almost taste the 'old fashion' sweetness that I know from tomatoes in my childhood... these days, the tomatoes that hits the stores here are without taste and watery...

... and I definitely need to dive into my Neruda poembook again!

Snappy Di said...

Looks like you got a whole lotta tomato eating to do! Enjoy!!

Meri said...

Food and word sensuality. . .

d smith kaich jones said...

oh my god, yes. i stand at the kitchen sink, salt shaker in one hand, tomato in the other and let the juices dribble down my chin, down the drain (happy drain!), and i see nothing out the kitchen window, my eyes focused only on this taste, this taste, my god. a gift from the heavens.

Paintdiva said...

Oh, my tomatoes are not quite there...just blossoms on the hugely growing plants. I need to be patient and your poem is making me NOT!

Cheryl said...

Wild, succulent tomato woman. That's you! Beautiful poem and photo. Thanks.