The way I felt about it made me forget all the other pears I've ever had in my life. It was lightly dimpled and golden yellow. In the presence of the pear I was unsure whether I was the Lover or the Beloved. I was unsure whether I held the pear in my hands or the pear was holding me. It had freckled skin and a supple body. It had some junk in its trunk. That is not an exaggeration. Most pears in Alaska don't do that.
"Sweet nectar of Pyrus, mother of perry, easily bruised filler of a luscious cup," I thought, "it takes twenty-eight pounds of you to make a bottle of brandy, but I only want you, you alone, matured, seasoned by a summer sun, you, oh delicately ripe one. I give you my lips, my tongue; I give you my taste buds one after another and then all at once; be with them, party with them, love them like they should be loved."
I was in love with my pear. And my pear loved me right back. After the pear and I ended our dance, our relationship, our trip through the light fantastic, after we had shed our tears and went our way, only our love remained and I returned again to the world you and I live in, love in, make war in.
I descended from my bliss. At that moment I realized that almost everyone in the world must love a good pear, even our so-called enemies.
I know, I know, there are many among us who believe that Muslims are different from us and don't like pears and it is said that Islamic Extremists surely hate them.
But I think the truth probably is that even somebody willing to die for a cause and kill others for a cause, probably still enjoys a good pear in the sun, probably licks the juice off her fingers and sinks into the moment, the moment of the pear.
We hear a lot of talk about these people we fight. We hear how they are different from us: they don't value life, they kill without sympathy, they explode the citizenry, and they don't like pears.
But the truth is, the same charges can be leveled against us. We have treated people pretty inhumanely. We don't even keep track of the civilian death count. We have our sympathies but we act without empathy. I bet someone in Iraq right now, someone in the Middle East, thinks that we are the sort of bastards that can't enjoy a good pear, wouldn't ever enjoy a good pear, and don't even have the capacity to know what a good pear is.
But we do. And so do they. This is the blessing of the pear I ate today, that sweet lovely pear. It brought me back to the deliciousness of life, this same deliciousness of life we all hold on our tongues for as long as we can. It reminded me how there should be more of it; sweet pears for everyone.
I now bestow a sweet imaginary pear on the following: First of all to you My Friend, for being here and reading this: the pear I ate today.
To George W. Bush. Mr. Bush, a fine pear for you, for the pleasure of your senses.
To the enemy abroad; a pear to ease the course of your anger.
To the Constitution Breakers; a slice of what remains of an original pear.
To all the kids of Alaska, Iraq, Afghanistan, Beirut and Israel; as many sweet pears as you can eat.
To the Army Interrogators, the water boarders, the torturers: you all get pears no questions asked. They are for your numb hearts.
And finally to my pear, my sweet dream of a pear of today. I give you myself in my entirety. I give you my violent heart, my good heart, my heart of all the hearts of all the people of the world.
Thanks to Melissa over at Written Rebellion
Poem by Andrew
Melissa's eldest first cousin and peace activist.
I had a pear today. I have never tasted better.
The way I felt about it made me forget all the other pears I've ever had in my life.
It was lightly dimpled and golden yellow.
In the presence of the pear I was unsure whether I was
the Lover or the Beloved.
I was unsure whether I held the pear in my hands
or the pear was holding me.
It had freckled skin and a supple body.
It had some junk in its trunk.
That is not an exaggeration.
Most pears in Alaska don't do that.
"Sweet nectar of Pyrus,
mother of perry,
easily bruised filler of a luscious cup," I thought, "it takes twenty-eight pounds of you to make a bottle of brandy, but I only want you, you alone, matured, seasoned by a summer sun, you, oh delicately ripe one. I give you my lips, my tongue; I give you my taste buds one after another and then all at once; be with them, party with them, love them like they should be loved."
I was in love with my pear.
And my pear loved me right back.
After the pear and I ended our dance, our relationship, our trip through the light fantastic, after we had shed our tears and went our way, only our love remained and I returned again to the world you and I live in, love in, make war in.
I descended from my bliss.
At that moment I realized that almost everyone in the world must love a good pear, even our so-called enemies.
I know, I know, there are many among us who believe that Muslims are different from us and don't like pears and it is said that Islamic Extremists surely hate them.
But I think the truth probably is that even somebody willing to die for a cause and kill others for a cause, probably still enjoys a good pear in the sun, probably licks the juice off her fingers and sinks into the moment, the moment of the pear.
We hear a lot of talk about these people we fight. We hear how they are different from us: they don't value life, they kill without sympathy, they explode the citizenry, and they don't like pears.
But the truth is, the same charges can be leveled against us. We have treated people pretty inhumanely. We don't even keep track of the civilian death count. We have our sympathies but we act without empathy.
I bet someone in Iraq right now, someone in the Middle East, thinks that we are the sort of bastards that can't enjoy a good pear, wouldn't ever enjoy a good pear, and don't even have the capacity to know what a good pear is.
But we do.
And so do they.
This is the blessing of the pear I ate today, that sweet lovely pear.
It brought me back to the deliciousness of life,
this same deliciousness of life
we all hold on our tongues for as long as we can.
It reminded me how there should be more of it;
sweet pears for everyone.
First of all to you My Friend,
for being here and reading this:
the pear I ate today.
To George W. Bush.
Mr. Bush, a fine pear for you,
for the pleasure of your senses.
To the enemy abroad;
a pear to ease the course of your anger.
To the Constitution Breakers;
a slice of what remains of an original pear.
To all the kids of Alaska, Iraq, Afghanistan, Beirut and Israel;
as many sweet pears as you can eat.
To the Army Interrogators, the water boarders, the torturers:
you all get pears no questions asked.
They are for your numb hearts.
And finally to my pear,
my sweet dream of a pear of today.
I give you myself in my entirety.
I give you my violent heart,
my good heart,
my heart of all the hearts of all the people of the world.
You were delicious.
War Pear at Written Rebellion!