Ode To Tomatoes

When Melinda and I were dating, she told her family that I had several bad qualities. I skied, swam, hiked, wore shorts, played the guitar, played the oboe, and worst of all - I liked poetry. Melinda was sure that anyone who liked poetry couldn't possibly be stable. I'm not really "into" poetry and I haven't even read some of most famous poets. But I had recently had a Spanish literature class and I really enjoyed some of the poems we read, so I happened to mention that to her.

Really, the only poet I know much about is Pablo Neruda. The way I see it, who else matters? I know I'm prejudiced toward him because he is Chilean, and I have a soft spot for all things Chilean, but really he is the best. He is know in Chile as El Poeta, The Poet. If anyone refers to The Poet, it's Pablo Neruda.

Interestingly enough, Chile has two noble prize winning poets, Gabriela Mistral and Pablo Neruda. He was actually a student of hers when he was very young in the south of Chile. There are statues and monuments to Gabriela Mistral all over Chile, and she has her own currency; she is on the 5000 peso bill. But Neruda was much more prolific and important poet than she was, but his politics made him more controversial.

Some of my favorite poems that he wrote are in Odes to Common Things. He was the voice of the common person; all the hard workers of Chile. In Chile a very common dish is ensalada chilena, Chilean salad. It is made with cut up fresh tomatoes, onions (they usually soak them in salt water first to make them milder), olive oil, lsalt, and parsley or cilantro. It's a basic food that everyone eats. So before the tomato harvest is over this year, let's give it up for the tomato!

Ode To Tomatoes
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.