BW7: Ode to Common Things to Pablo Neruda

Wishing you the happiest of days, the happiest of weeks as we celebrate Super Bowl Sunday, Galentine's Day, Valentine's Day, Singles Awareness Day, Do a Grouch a Favor day, Random Acts of Kindness Day, and of course, National Drink Wine day. 

As I was meandering about the internet I came across Meanderings and Muses (Don't you love that name) Odes to Common things. And wouldn't you just know it, I fell down a rabbit hole.  Found The Examined Life's article on Pablo Neruda's Sublime Poetic Wonder at Meaning and Utility in Everyday Things.   Then stumbled upon Interludes where his poetry inspired  The Music of Poetry - Pablo Neruda: Odes to Common Things.   Yes, he even penned An Ode to a Book, but I liked his Common Things better.  

Shall we should all write an ode to our books, our lives, our loves?   Have an adventure and read a book of Odes, offbeat odes, an ode to stardust, or An Ode to Snow. 

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,

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.

Our post is sponsored by the letter G this week: Genres full of gorgeous, gregarious, generous, or gallant characters who gadabout.

Happy Reading!  

******

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