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.

 

 

1.Summary

This poem is about the beauty of tomatoes in many situations and extends to show how the simplest things have a beautiful essence, especially people. He takes things that we might view as commonplace and describes how extraordinary they can be.

Shifts

 

He changes the subject when speaking about different types of food: first tomatoes, then parsley, and oil. He changes the mood as he talks about different occasions: Summer feeling (balmy, intense), Weddings (happy, bright).

Title

The title of this poem is “Ode to Tomatoes” which is a dedication to the underappreciated but beautiful things throughout life.

 

Theme

The theme of this poem is that you must learn to embrace the usual things in life that are often seen as dull, and find the beauty within them.

Imagery

“Summer- light is halved like a tomato” is a simile comparing the time of day to a tomatoe half, meaning that it is noon.

“Tomato invades kitchen” is a personification. A tomato cannot physically invade and seize a kitchen; it is meant to show just how abundant the tomatoes are throughout the kitchen.

“It sheds it’s own light, benign majesty” is a metaphor comparing the beauty the writer sees in the tomato to a wonderful light. He is saying that the tomatoe is brilliant and gorgeous; it stands out when he looks at it.

“We must murder it” is a hyperbole, exaggerating how we cut up the tomato.

“It is wed to the clear onion” is a personification that shows how well the taste of tomatoes and onions complement each other.

 

Connotation

-Red Viscera: (guts) frightening, violent 

-Fiery colour: vibrant, angry, passionate

-bubble vigorously- aggressive, intense

- hemisphere- large, significant profound

 

Conflict

Man vs. Nature- This poem describes the relationship between man and a tomato.

Man vs Man- This poem also describes societies view on mundane things. The tomatoes can be seen as representing people. It shows people’s different opinions and perspectives of others.

 

 

 

Beauty is not just

A person

A place

A thing

Nor is it a state of mind

It’s far more complex

Woven in and out

Of everything

Of every being

Sometimes: the thread of beauty

Has vivid patterns 

Other times, subtle hues

It may compliment

The other colours in the cloth

In the form of an epiphany

Love

Even rage

Some only see it for an instant

Others a lifetime

But the cloak of beauty

Will sweep past us

At some point

And it is our job

To notice it

To embrace it

To be beautiful

If only for a moment.

 

 

If I am like a naïve child then
You must be a tree
For though you can talk with all your wisdom
Motionless you’ll always be
I may reek havoc
And constantly break the rules
But you’ll just stand their far too proud
And lacking in the tools
To make a difference in anyone’s life
No, you’re far too scared
Where as I am simply reckless
But my will is always there
I can explore and choose to change
Does a child not grow and learn?
I will have a chance someday
It’ll never be your turn
I take comfort while you mock
And look down on me with distain
That these feelings are the root of your trouble
And from these feelings I shall refrain
So I will make something of my self
What I’m not quite sure
But I’ll use your mistakes as my example
And be something better in return

With sight I am blessed-

Such an undervalued gift

And one I sorely miss

As ebony embraces me

My blind fold disables me

It makes me as helpless

As my baby back home

Will I make it back?

I doubt it

What will my family think

when they find I am gone?

It is only by some miracle

That I freed my constricted arms

And then sound becomes

A curse

For I hear ominous steps drawing near

A deliberately slow tempo

Of rubber sole on concrete

And I wait there in darkness

With a hysterical feeling

Seeping into my skin,

Hoping to come to my senses

 

 

He always did things certain way

Some say the wrong way

I say his way

My grandfather with one leg,

And his PT Cruiser was perpetually perfumed

With the coils and twirls of smoke

his constantly lit cigarette coughed up.

Some said that this would end his story.

and when he ate what he like

we thought nothing of it.

what is diabetes to a man

already weathered by a fierce tempest?

So I suppose it is only natural that he died

Like he lived his life

Belligerent and wonderful

Stubborn and eccentric

A concoction of paradox’s

That perplexed everyone else

And enthralled me

 

Hence I will mourn him my way-

Some say the wrong way-

I won’t cry at his funeral

I won’t shed tears at my loss

Because that’s exactly what it is.

My loss.

And I will do with it as I please

 

 

 

Hunger Camp at Jaslo is a poem about the millions of people who died in concentration camps in Poland. The particular camp Symborska describes is deceptively peaceful and could beguile people into thinking it is an innocent and truly beautiful area. She tells the story of the individuals who suffered, starved, and cried there.

I love this poem because Symborska is intrepid when recounting the pain countless people felt, some of whom she probably knew. She is and adept raconteur with the eerie ability to capture my attention as she spins tales of agony and sorrow. She rightfully points out that history has a way of overlooking individuals that died by rounding the death toll to the nearest “clean” number. She shows what importance each life has and what an atrocity it is to smother such a beautiful thing. Symborska uncannily depicts the unified anguish of the people that died.

 

Hunger Camp At Jaslo

By Wislawa Symborska

 

 



 

 

Write it. Write. In ordinary ink
on ordinary paper: they were given no food,
they all died of hunger. "All. How many?
It's a big meadow. How much grass
for each one?" Write: I don't know.
History counts its skeletons in round numbers.
A thousand and one remains a thousand,
as though the one had never existed:
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle,
an ABC never read,
air that laughs, cries, grows,
emptiness running down steps toward the garden,
nobody's place in the line.

We stand in the meadow where it became flesh,
and the meadow is silent as a false witness.
Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest
with wood for chewing and water under the bark-
every day a full ration of the view
until you go blind. Overhead, a bird-
the shadow of its life-giving wings
brushed their lips. Their jaws opened.
Teeth clacked against teeth.
At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky
and reaped wheat for their bread.
Hands came floating from blackened icons,
empty cups in their fingers.
On a spit of barbed wire,
a man was turning.
They sang with their mouths full of earth.
"A lovely song of how war strikes straight
at the heart." Write: how silent.
"Yes."



 

 

Start blogging by creating a new post. You can edit or delete me by clicking under the comments. You can also customize your sidebar by dragging in elements from the top bar.