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Sunday, March 20, 2011

Sunday Poetry XX -- from ODES TO COMMON THINGS, by Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda
I'm not a communist, for whatever that's worth, but I love Pablo Neruda--well, his poetry.  Not even that, really--too broad.  I love his odes.  I confess I didn't discover Neruda until after I'd seen Il Postino, one of my favorite movies, by the way, and which features the Chilean, ex-patriot poet as mentor to a hapless, stricken mailman in the broad, speculative field of Romance.

Here is one of my favorites of his odes--one that reminds me how great life really is.

Ode to things
by Pablo Neruda
I have a crazy,
crazy love of things.
I like pliers,
and scissors.
I love
cups,
rings,
and bowls –
not to speak, or course,
of hats.
I love
all things,
not just
the grandest,
also
the
infinite-
ly
small –
thimbles,
spurs,
plates,
and flower vases.

Oh yes,
the planet
is sublime!
It’s full of pipes
weaving
hand-held
through tobacco smoke,
and keys
and salt shakers –
everything,
I mean,
that is made
by the hand of man, every little thing:
shapely shoes,
and fabric,
and each new
bloodless birth
of gold,
eyeglasses
carpenter’s nails,
brushes,
clocks, compasses,
coins, and the so-soft
softness of chairs.

Mankind has
built
oh so many
perfect
things!
Built them of wool
and of wood,
of glass and
of rope:
remarkable
tables,
ships, and stairways.

I love
all
things,
not because they are
passionate
or sweet-smelling
but because,
I don’t know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine;
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers
love has scattered
its blossoms,
glasses, knives and
scissors –
all bear
the trace
of someone’s fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness.

I pause in houses,
streets and
elevators
touching things,
identifying objects
that I secretly covet;
this one because it rings,
that one because
it’s as soft
as the softness of a woman’s hip,
that one there for its deep-sea color,
and that one for its velvet feel.

O irrevocable
river
of things:
no one can say
that I loved
only
fish,
or the plants of the jungle and the field,
that I loved
only
those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive.
It’s not true:
many things conspired
to tell me the whole story.
Not only did they touch me,
or my hand touched them:
they were
so close
that they were a part
of my being,
they were so alive with me
that they lived half my life
and will die half my death.

4 comments:

  1. This really is a neat, very happy, little poem. I love the way that he uses line breaks. Breaking infinitely into two lines is just brilliant because the reader first sees that he loves things infinite (so huge), but then it ends up being infinitely small, also.

    Also, for the last Eco chapter. All I can say about the illustrations is: Wow. Just awesome.

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  2. Neruda's more politically driven stuff is good too, but I'm not a big fan. When I need an uplift, I turn to his odes, many of which aren't so simple, but all beautiful, free, and essentially happy.

    And you're right, I love the illustrations (and that none of them were done for the book, but collected) for "Mysterious Flame." And they get better.

    ReplyDelete
  3. wow. that is a perfect ode. he wonderfully translated my broad and universal love for so many things.

    it made me smile. loved it!

    ReplyDelete
  4. There are two complete collections of his stuff packed with does of this quality. I recommend them.

    ReplyDelete

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