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 had never heard of Pablo Neruda nor this poem until last weekend when I went to a wake. I love it. It encompasses why I buy the things I do. Why I have so many shoes and books and kitchen tools and beautiful little things. They are evidence of the beauty and intelligence in their makers, inspiring beauty and intelligence in ourselves.
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
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.