This post is totally off-topic, no political rallies or dust-ups here, just a little creative writing.
My blog's title mentions fiction, which is a very dear part of my existence (if you'd like to check out my short stories, and/or have a look at Beguile, the literary ezine I've founded, please scroll down the left-hand column for the links). So here's a short, hopefully tolerable piece I wrote a few years back.
Actually, the more I think of it, it's not really fiction, just a description in free verse, I guess.
About ten years ago, I was inspired by some cherry tomatoes in a salad someone was eating at a table near mine.
Recently, under totally unrelated circumstances, I discovered Pablo Neruda's gorgeous and far superior poem on the same subject (tomatoes, not staring at people eating salads...though who knows what Neruda did when he wasn't writing marvellous poetry).
Here's Pablo Neruda's poem "Oda al tomate" in English:
Here is Neruda's "Oda al tomate" in the original Spanish: http://spanishpoems.blogspot.com/2005/02/pablo-neruda-oda-al-tomate.html
As for my own work, if you're inclined to read it after I've referenced such an amazing piece, here it is. I apologize in advance for the clumsy title, but since it's old, I feel bad changing it. There are other things I'd like to change, but I'd feel bad changing them now, as well.
Tomatoes in a Girl’s Salad in the Dining Hall
Red and bedecked with glistening stars shining burning calling out loudly amid lettuce fronds and the sounds of a million people laughing Some are dry and dully glowing like a starburst jewel in a lady’s ring If red could sing you’d sing redness you’d tell me how you’ve drawn stars down from the heavens Such a dream of fruit such a teetering between fruit and vegetable like looking in a mirror and seeing no reflection – or seeing it, but knowing your real body is different
How lovingly did the cafeteria worker’s gloved hands touch you, how lovingly can my eyes gaze upon you now as you sing and blaze bravely, about to be devoured
by a girl
looked at you twice
And the water's all drawn inside you
and mingles with acid like blood in
the mouth every puncture of the fork a four-speared torture, you are the victim of the primal drive to eat, to
…but we’ll never catch the light of the stars.
© Alysa Salzberg 2010