Pablo Neruda would be 103 today. Here's one of my favorites by him:
Ode to Things
I have a crazy,
crazy love of things.
I like pliers,
not to speak, of course,
and flower vases.
It's full of
through tobacco smoke,
and salt shakers--
that is made
by the hand of man, every little thing:
and each new
coins, and the so-soft
softness of chairs.
oh so many
Built them of wool
and of wood,
of glass and
ships, and stairways.
not because they are
I don't know,
this ocean is yours,
love has scattered its blossoms,
glasses, knives and
of someone's fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
in the depths of forgetfulness.
I pause in houses,
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.
no one can say
that I loved
or the plants of the jungle and the field,
that I loved
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:
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.
(retyped from the translation by Ken Krabbenhoft in the Bulfinch Press edition of Odes To Common Things)
PS - It's also Thoreau's birthday, so if you get hungry you can eat a woodchuck raw in his honor.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Posted by Amelia Swhizzagers at 5:45 AM
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