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probably the most heart wrenching poem I’ve read in years who wanna eat tomatoes with me
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oh hell yea ..
19h ago
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:,)
21h ago
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The Orange by Wendy Cope is one of my favourite poems like this. Those simple joys or gestures in life. Small, seemingly absurd things shared with others that can bring so much y’know Small Kindnesses by Danusha Laméris hits this for me too
1d ago
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@RAIT
1d ago
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why am i tearing up i don’t even like tomatoes
1d ago
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@IZABELLAAHARRISS You clearly haven’t eaten a good tomato
1d ago
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@CYBERSLAV42 you could be right… but also i just dont like the texture lol
1d ago
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@IZABELLAAHARRISS heirloom tomatoes don’t taste like sand
1d ago

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Love After Love The time will come  when, with elation  you will greet yourself arriving  at your own door, in your own mirror  and each will smile at the other's welcome,  and say, sit here. Eat.  You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart  to itself, to the stranger who has loved you  all your life, whom you ignored  for another, who knows you by heart.  Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,  the photographs, the desperate notes,  peel your own image from the mirror.  Sit. Feast on your life.  [Image ID: Carnegie Heart (1986) by Jim Dine]
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Ok - maybe not a poem and I’m stretching the boundaries of this prompt, but it’s an excerpt I always come back to. “I am sitting at my kitchen table waiting for my lover to arrive with lettuce and tomatoes and rum and sherry wine and a big floury loaf of bread in the fading sunlight. Coffee is percolating gently, and my mood is mellow. I have been very happy lately, just wallowing in it selfishly, knowing it will not last very long, which is all the more reason to enjoy it now. I suppose life always ends badly for almost everybody. We must have long fingers and catch at whatever we can while it is passing near us.”
Jul 1, 2024
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I could live better if I tried My sink would have fewer dishes The thought of eating would not cause my body to feel tired and weak I dream of the taste of fresh fruit but all I can manage are fried pre packaged frozen disks of various substances Fruit never stays It deflates in my refrigerator What was six apples becomes three, becomes piles of fruity flesh Carcasses rotting like innocence in the glow of a small white bulb Watching the life leave, confined to a cheap plastic cubicle The spirit was never there to begin with All I am ever allowed is dead Brought from the store to my refrigerator like from an accident to a morgue To stay cold
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