in praise of ironing.

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Poetry is pure white.
It emerges from water covered with drops,
is wrinkled, all in a heap.
It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet,
has to be ironed out, the sea’s whiteness;
and the hands keep moving, moving,
the holy surfaces are smoothed out,
and that is how things are accomplished.
Every day, hands are creating the world,
fire is married to steel,
and canvas, linen, and cotton come back
from the skirmishings of the laundries,
and out of light a dove is born –
pure innocence returns out of the swirl.

 

in praise of ironing by Pablo Neruda, translated by Alastair Reid

51 responses »

  1. Personally, I hate ironing, but I did iron a tablecloth last evening, as I have a friend coming for Sunday lunch!! I do like a nicely prepared table now and again, and he’s providing a nice bottle of claret to go with the lamb, so I thought a bit of effort wouldn’t go amiss!!

    Liked by 1 person

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