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
sunday in october
the farmer, in the pride of sea-worn acres,
showed me his honey mill, the honey-gate.
late afternoon was busy on the land,
the sun was a warm gauzy providence.
the honey mill, the honey-gate. and then,
near by, the bees. they came in from the fields,
the sun behind them, from the fields and trees,
like soft banners, waving from the sea.
he told me of their thousands, their ways,
of pounds of honey in the homely apiaries.
the stores were almost full, in autumn air,
against the coming chill, and the long cold.
he was about ready to rob them now,
the combs. he’d leave them just enough to keep them.
I thought it a rather subtle point point he made,
wishing providence would be as sure of us.
image credit: danny1970
“Frost grows on the window glass,
forming whorl patterns of lovely translucent geometry.
Breathe on the glass, and you give frost more ammunition.
Now it can build castles and cities and whole ice continents with your breath’s vapor.
In a few blinks you can almost see the winter fairies moving in . . .
But first, you hear the crackle of their wings.”
― vera nazarian, the perpetual calendar of inspiration