02 Dec Words to Ponder #42
From Pablo Neruda’s magnificent book of poems, Odes to Common Things, is this beauty (in English thanks to translator Ken Krabbenhoft).
Spoon,
scoop
formed
by man’s
most ancient hand,
in your design
of metal or wood
we still see
the shape
of the first
palm
to which
water
imparted
coolness
and savage
blood,
the throb
of bonfires and the hunt.
Little
spoon
in an
infant’s
tiny hand,
you raise
to his mouth
the earth’s
most
ancient
kiss,
silent heritage
of the first water to sing
on lips that later lay
buried beneath the sand.
To this hollow space,
detached from the palm of our hand,
someone
added
a make-believe wooden
arm,
and
spoons
started turning up
all over the world
in ever
more
perfect
form,
spoons made for
moving
between bowl and ruby-red lips
or flying
from thin soups
to hungry men’s careless mouths.
Yes,
spoon:
at mankind’s side
you have climbed
mountains,
swept down rivers,
populated
ships and cities,
castles and kitchens:
but
the hard part
of your life’s journey
is to plunge
into the poor man’s plate,
and into his mouth.
And so the coming
of the new life
that,
fighting and singing,
we preach,
will be a coming of soup bowls,
a perfect panoply
of spoons.
An ocean of steam rising from pots
in a world
without hunger,
and a total mobilization of spoons,
will shed light where once was darkness
shining on plates spread all over the table
like contented flowers.
Jill Battale
Posted at 05:42h, 03 DecemberThanks, Lo. Here’s another of his I like, especially the last stanza. Jill
translated by Robert Bly
Ode to My Socks
Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as though into
two
cases
knitted
with threads of
twilight
and goatskin.
Violent socks,
my feet were
two fish made
of wool,
two long sharks
sea-blue, shot
through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons:
my feet
were honored
in this way
by
these
heavenly
socks.
They were
so handsome
for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that woven
fire,
of those glowing
socks.
Nevertheless
I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere
as schoolboys
keep
fireflies,
as learned men
collect
sacred texts,
I resisted
the mad impulse
to put them
into a golden
cage
and each day give them
birdseed
and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers
in the jungle who hand
over the very rare
green deer
to the spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stretched out
my feet
and pulled on
the magnificent
socks
and then my shoes.
The moral
of my ode is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool
in winter.
Helen Abel
Posted at 04:00h, 03 DecemberI agree. So beautiful and moving. I have never read this one before. Thanks.
Ann Green
Posted at 13:28h, 02 DecemberAbsolutely beautiful. Thank you, Lois.