Poems about melons may help remind us all, as winter approaches, that the fruits of summer will return again, as they always do.
In Benidorm there are melons, Whole donkey-carts full
Of innumerable melons, Ovals and balls,
Bright green and thumpable Laced over with stripes
Of turtle-dark green. Choose an egg-shape, a world-shape,
Bowl one homeward to taste In the whitehot noon:
Cream-smooth honeydews, Pink-pulped whoppers,
Bump-rinded cantaloupes With orange cores.
Each wedge wears a studding Of blanched seeds or black seeds
To strew like confetti Under the feet of
This market of melon-eating Fiesta-goers.
- by Sylvia Plath
Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity
During that summer When unicorns were still piossible; When the purpose of knees Was to be skinned' When shiny horse chestnuts (hollowed out Fitted with straws Crammed with tobacco Stolen from butts in family ashtrays) Were puffed in green lizard silence While straddling thick branches Far above and away From the softening effects of civilization;
During that summer— Which may never have been at all; But which has become more real Than the one that was— Watermelons ruled.
Thick pink imperial slices Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues Dribbling from chins; Leaving the best part, The black bullet seeds, To be spit out in rapid fire Against the wall Against the wind Against each other;
And when the ammunition was spent, There was always another bite: It was a summer of limitless bites, Of hungers quickly felt And quickly forgotten With the next careless gorging.
The bites are fewer now. Each one is savored lingeringly, Swallowed reluctantly.
But in a jar put up by Felicity, The summer which never maybe was Has been captured and preserved. And when we unscrew the lid And slice off a piece And let it linger on our tongue: Unicorns become possible again.
- by John Tobias