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A Ripening Love

By Ben Landy
Paintings by Silvia Rosenberg

Carrot




Sliced or stripped it is unfooled
A never repeated version of the oldest red tool.
The dirt clinging to its skin, the vein
Running full through the beam, yes!
An exclamation point of crunchiness, unless
Dipped in a pot of honey, boiled
In the passions of water it becomes
Unequivocally, the limp measure,
The strangling embrace of time passing
Over the heads of lovers.



Pear



Bottoms and breasts and cellos sweetly too
Cool in the imagined orchards of northern hills
Shaped like itself and undisturbingly seeded
The softly bit tit of summers recollected in singular taste
Sweaty hanging balls of winter's covers
Dry and damp, damp and dry, a pretence of coolness
When passion tramps muddy feet
Across the hand-woven carpet
And in the room beyond, a pale face waiting
Suddenly stranger to the place.



Mushroom



Cloudy after rain dangers tossed
In the stuffed mannerisms of French champs
Carried in baskets on ladies crook'd arms
Hunting with certain kinds of boars
In hilly forests where the moss
Grows north. Instantaneously
White then graying
A pulsating memory of Japanese gardens
Where the soldier's version is always plucked,
A soldier's version with heaven.



Green pepper



Photographed as if one could ever forget
The hollow spaces where water runs feelingly
Among the white futures it would nourish.
It is the topography of any hilly land
Lying on its side at the beach, a virgin
A green virgin awaiting a hand
The raw crackling snap of color
Spice, spice and surprise
The strongly worded present, the now.



Grapes



Glass wrapped and pleasurly aged
When ripe a fly's harvest and young man's dream
Of nymphet lips and what yet become
A shriveled little old man, born too much
In the sun, carried too far in the rain
Trampled by feet too long in the faulty hopes of better dreams.
It is the nipple nibbled or stripped of skin
A shelter from a storm imagined;
A happiness of lips pursed
In the white redness of the moment.



Lettuce



You and I, enabled by our past
To be a head, a leaf, a green cup.
Immensely rich and friend to the poor
Dug up and washed up, dripping with beads
Pearls of water falling in rhyme
To the shape as it began, to the shape
Of our achievement.
Like strangers on a safari tour
In deepest corners of the room, we track
And scout discoveries, chart and mark the path.




Garlic



This pale purple pink of flakes
And stubborn peels
In a city, in a village house hanging
Always near people, with people, a people
Itself twisted into wreaths
Not kissing, yes kissing, it is a people
Of separate bulbs contained in one bulb
Contained in one taste of sweat and eagerness
Yes, eagerness, the sweat of tasting eagerness
A taste of lovers loving despite everything.




Tomato



All water and seed running sideways
In spraying splurt of spilt picnic
Sitting unnaturally salted, soured, pickled and pureed
'til measured in soups practiced in souqs
placated beside grave green overnight
window sills, ripening
in rays of dusty tiny illuminations
in the morning light when
birds the redness with speed the song.



Onion



Peeled and peeled again, a forever pale
Of its own contradictory opacity.
It is the only smell, the only tear, the only
Certain one. Peeled and peeled again, a forever
Certain smell; the brown concealing light
The circles a center, a concealed light of its own.
A promising smell. Peeled and peeled again
A revealing smell, a promising revelation,
But never consumed, only consomme.


Ben Landy is a pen-name for a high-tech entrepreneur who says he wishes "computers were never invented even though I use one about 15 hours a day." You can write to him c/o Ariga at Ben Landy c/o Ariga.Here's another poem by him.
Silvia Rosenberg is a Tel Aviv-based painter and interior designer, married to Robert Rosenberg, of Ariga. More of her work, both paintings and design, can be seen at http://www.ariga.com/silvia

Back to the Ripening Love paintings in Silvia's gallery


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