martedì 10 dicembre 2013

ODE TO 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 infinitely 
small 


thimbles, 


spurs,


plates,






and flower vases.




Oh yes,
the planet
is sublime!


It’s full of pipes
weavinghand-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 
newbloodless 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.


All images via Pinterest



Un caro saluto a tutti



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