Ode to Common Things
I have a crazy,
crazy love of things.
I like pliers,
and scissors.
I love
cups,
rings,
and bowls -
not to speak, or 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.
---
I first heard this poem when I was in graduate school, taking a poetry seminar taught by the American poet Shirley Kaufman, who read it aloud in class. It was not difficult to fall in love with it. I've always believed that an object carries with it energies from the past, whether it be from the hands of the factory-worker who packaged it, or the artist who painted it, or the shopkeeper on whose shelves it lay, awaiting a home. Neruda captures this with loving sensitivity and uncomplicated language, and takes it a notch further by bringing to mind the concept
of oneness and connectedness of everything on the planet.
The very idea that all matter that exists today has existed since the beginning of time must mean that even onto the most inanimate of objects, some touch of life has been imbued.
ReplyDeleteWithin everything there is the possibility of a trace of a morsel of food Da Vinci ate, the memory of the dirt upon which Jesus trod, the ash from a Churchillian cigar.
The mere possibility of that makes every thing enchanting.
Beautiful poem.
Beautifully expressed, Jacqueline. The objects we share our lives with are historical archives, treasure troves of memory. This really does imbue them with something enchanting.
ReplyDeleteT., thank you for posting one of my all-time favourite poems. That Neruda! He's incredible, isn't he.
L, C x
did I say Premium Tea?I like it here...
ReplyDeleteJacqueline, I'm reminded by all this conversation by the fact that one can never truly throw something away...it still exists, in some form, on the planet. That certainly makes me strive to acquire/use less! And thank-you!
ReplyDeleteClare, I need to take a look at all the Tuesday Poems to see if there is a theme this week. I'm thinking of William Carlos Williams: No ideas but in things.
I like this very much.
ReplyDeleteThis poem so reminds me of.....
ReplyDeleteI look at their clothes and their hands,
the traces of water in the echoing hollows,
the wall worn smooth by the touch of a face
that looked with my eyes at the earthly lamps,
that oiled with my hands the vanished
timbers: because everything –the clothes, the hides, the vessels,
the words, the wine, the bread was
gone, fallen into the earth.
Tara, who wrote that?
ReplyDeleteOh, great! Another list poem - and what a poem it is.
ReplyDeleteOur new -ish house is gradually accumulating things with a history. Oddments from other houses in the family, an heirloom, a cup, a set of cutlery. The poem speaks eloquently of this value. I also like the scuff marks on the timber staircase; they tell me that people have been through this house, guests, relatives...
ReplyDelete