Sunday, April 15, 2018

NPM 4:15 - Ode to Ironing

Today I'm sharing a poem by Pablo Neruda.

Ode to Ironing

Poetry is white:
it comes from the water covered with drops,
it wrinkles and piles up,
the skin of this planet must be stretched,
the sea of its whiteness must be ironed,
and the hands move and move,
the holy surfaces are smoothed out,
and that is how things are made:
hands make the world each day,
fire becomes one with steel,
linen, canvas, and cotton arrive
from the combat of the laundries,
and out of light a dove is born:
chastity returns from the foam.


Happy Sunday all.

3 comments:

  1. Makes me think of my mother who absolutely loved ironing!

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    Replies
    1. Yes, I adore ironing. It's a wonderful way to work out anger and aggression, and there's just something soothing about it. That's why I love this poem.

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  2. And the smell of the linen and cotton as order is restored... ah. So lovely.

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