Ode to the Tomato
The roadway
is full of tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
the light
splits itself
in two
halves
of tomato,
runs
down the roads
as juice.
In December
it goes wild
the tomato,
invades
kitchens,
infiltrates lunches,
settles itself
quietly
on sideboards,
among glasses,
butter-dishes,
blue salt-shakers.
It has
its own light,
gentle authority.
Sadly we have to
murder it:
sinking,
the knife
in its living pulp,
it is a red
heart,
a fresh
sun,
deep,
inexhaustible,
filling the salads
of Chile,
is happily wedded
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate
oil
lets itself
pour,
essential
child of the olive,
over its half-open hemispheres,
the peppers
add
their fragrance,
salt its magnetism:
it’s a stylish
wedding,
parsley
lifts
little flags,
the potatoes
boil with vigor,
the roast
knocks
on the door
with its aroma,
it’s time!
come on!
and on to
the table, in the middle
of summer,
the tomato,
earth-star,
star
repeated
and fecund,
shows us
its convolutions,
its channels,
the famous fullness
and plenty
delivers up
without stone
without rind
without scales or spines
the gift
of its fiery color
and the whole of its freshness.
.
Pablo Neruda, 1904–1973
© 1954 Pablo Neruda
Pablo Neruda, “Ode to the Tomato” from Odas Elementales
Photo by おにぎり on Unsplash
