Oda a las cosas
by Pablo Neruda
Amo las cosas loca,
locamente.
Me gustan las tenazas,
las tijeras,
adoro las tazas,
las argollas,
las soperas,
sin hablar, por supuesto,
del sombrero.
Amo todas las cosas,
no sólo
las supremas,
sino
las
infinita-
mente
chicas,
el dedal,
las espuelas,
los platos,
los floreros.
Ay, alma mía,
hermoso
es el planeta,
lleno
de pipas
por la mano
conducidas
en el humo,
de llaves,
de saleros,
en fin,
todo
lo que se hizo
por la mano del hombre, toda cosa:
las curvas del zapato,
el tejido,
el nuevo nacimiento
del oro
sin la sangre,
los anteojos,
los clavos,
las escobas,
los relojes, las brújulas,
las monedas, la suave
suavidad de las sillas.
Ay cuántas
cosas
puras
ha construido
el hombre:
de lana,
de madera,
de cristal,
de cordeles,
mesas
maravillosas,
navíos, escaleras.
Amo
todas las cosas,
no porque sean
ardientes
o fragantes,
sino porque
no sé,
porque
este océano es el tuyo,
es el mío:
los botones,
las ruedas,
los pequeños
tesoros
olvidados,
los abanicos en
cuyos plumajes
desvaneció el amor
sus azahares,
las copas, los cuchillos,
las tijeras,
todo tiene
en el mango, en el contorno,
la huella
de unos dedos,
de una remota mano
perdida
en lo más olvidado del olvido.
Yo voy por casas,
calles,
ascensores,
tocando cosas,
divisando objetos
que en secreto ambiciono:
uno porque repica,
otro porque
es tan suave
como la suavidad de una cadera,
otro por su color de gua profunda.
otro por su espesor de terciopelo.
Oh río
irrevocable
de las cosas,
no se dirá
que sólo
amé
lo que salta, sube, sobrevive, suspira.
No es verdad:
muchas cosas
me lo dijeron todo.
No sólo me tocaron
o las tocó mi mano,
sino que acompañaron
de tal modo
mi existencia
que conmigo existieron
y fueron para mí tan existentes
que vivieron conmigo media vida
y morirán conmigo media muerte.
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 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.
Pablo Neruda wrote three books of odes during his lifetime. “Oda a las cosas” appeared in the book Odas Elementales in 1954. Neruda wrote and published a vast number of poems, which spoke of love, existentialism, and political travesty. His odes — poems of praise to laziness, a tuna, things — celebrated the day-to-day — the simple ordinariness of life itself.
–Abstract Charcoal Series and Color Links, details of charcoal on paper and details of link necklace, drawings and photos © 2008 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.
-Related to posts Got Poetry (National Poem In Your Pocket Day), Getting To Know Pablo Neruda, and Neruda – Solo La Muerte.
What a delightful poem! Thank you for post it. 🙂
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Beautiful poem, ybonesy. Captures exactly the way I feel, going through boxes of objects and things in the art studio today. I love these lines. Thank you for posting this.
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
___________________
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
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Yes, it’s one of those poems that, especially if you read it out loud (and in Spanish), it has a whimsy and joy in the words and cadence.
I recited it in Spanish only, along with one of the other performers, when I did the Neruda reading over a year ago. We used as a prop a basket filled with many of the items, and as one of us read the other picked up those items out of the basket. It was fun.
But with Neruda, there is a message beneath the surface, something beyond the whimsy of the subject. Neruda loves the industry, the productivity and creativity, of the hands and brains that make these things. It isn’t about materialism at all; rather, it is about ingenuity and capacity to create beauty.
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This poem is rhythmic in a natural way… it reminds me of walking through a department store with my grandson when he was about 1 – touching everything along the way with a gentle acknowledgment, saying ” this…this…this…this…” Not holding on to anything just seeing it, touching it, saying, this.this.this.
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This poem is rhythmic in a natural way… it reminds me of walking through a department store with my grandson when he was about 1 – touching everything along the way with a gentle acknowledgment, saying ” this…this…this…this…” Not holding on to anything just seeing it, touching it, saying, this.this.this.
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[…] poet Pablo Neruda, with his “Ode to things,” gave me permission to embrace my own love of things. As I read of “shapely shoes” and […]
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Thanks ever so much for this translation.
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You are most welcome. I wish I had the citation on who translated it, but I did not have one.
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I realised this morning that this translation is by Ken Krabbenhoft (Odes to Common Things, Bulfinch Press 2006).
In this video you can hear Neruda reciting the beginning of the poem, and the rest recited by a commentator: http://www.tu.tv/videos/yo-soy-pablo-neruda
Keep up the great work! :O)
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What a great link, Antoine. Hearing his voice at the beginning is wonderful. The black and white footage is amazing, too.
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Thanks, Antoine. This is a great link.
We played either this recording or a similar one, of the whole poem in preparation for and during a performance (LINK) we did last year of Pablo Neruda’s work. But I think the recording we played was from his poem Solo La Muerte (LINK), which was my favorite of the poems of his that we performed.
His voice is so deep. It almost drones out of him, like he’s channeling. I also read his poetry in as a close a voice as I could find within myself. It was hard not to after hearing him read. It was almost if his poetry was written just for his voice.
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The meaning of our stuff is the focus of sound and spirit, the radio show, today and I sought the Neruda poem. Thank you for posting it.
Thank you for in this way, making peace in this world.
Akua Lezli Hope
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Thank you for dropping in. Glad you could use the poem. I love the rhythm and ordinaryness of this poem.
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[…] of the poet herself that Wolff holds close to her own writing life. Instead, it’s a place, an ordinary object, a moment in time — an image of Dickinson’s bedroom and her writing table — the […]
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I really love this poem. It makes me happy to read it. And the last 12 lines that pull it all together — exquisite. I wish I could hear you read it in Spanish, ybonesy….next time I’m in New Mexico.
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[…] not just the grandest, also the infinitely small –thimbles, spurs, plates, and flower vases. Here’s the whole poem, in Spanish & […]
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Thanks for stopping by Snike. That’s a pretty cool mural of the poem at your link. I’ll have to make sure ybonesy doesn’t miss it.
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[…] No, our retro fridge is a handsome appliance. It makes me think about Pablo Neruda’s sensuous Oda a las cosas. Ode to things. Our refrigerator is shiny, and the name of the company that manufactured it appears […]
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[…] with knick knacks. He also wrote an ode to his things, which you can check out (in both languages!) here. Neruda's bar Neruda's main man, Walty […]
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[…] express a zen-like awareness of the detailed life around him. We love Ode to the Watermelon, and Ode to Things, and especially Ode to the Present (below), which we find puts us right HERE. We wondered if […]
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[…] was a passionate man who loved many things, but probably top on his list were collections and anything nautical. As in Neruda’s other houses, most notably Isla Negra, his […]
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[…] bottles, whosits and whatsits galore, La Sebastiana’s living room boasts the poem “Oda a las cosas,” or “Ode to […]
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[…] a beautiful poem, and a fitting one to read as you’re perusing the objects in his home. Here is the poem, along with an English […]
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