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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