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
image credit: blackmoon photo, austin
“green was the silence, wet was the light,
the month of june trembled like a butterfly.”
-pablo neruda, 100 love sonnets
my peony tree bursts with june light.
“green was the silence, wet was the light
the month of June trembled like a butterfly.”
from 100 Love Sonnets by PABLO NERUDA
“what did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?”
image credit: claudia tremblay, montreal
world food day is celebrated every year around the world on October 16th
in honor of the date of the founding of
the food and agriculture organization of the united nations in 1945.
image credit: syrian refugee children – cbc
Everything on the earth bristled,
the bramble pricked
and the green thread nibbled away,
the petal fell,
falling until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons from stone,
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.
Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems. Rainer Maria Rilke