Saturday, April 30, 2022

Ode To Common 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,

of 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,

eye glasses

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.


          - - - Pablo Neruda



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