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Ode To Conger Chowder y Pablo Neruda
In the storm-tossed Chilean sea lives
the rosy conger,
giant eel of snowy flesh. And in Chilean stewpots, along the coast, was born the chowder, thick and succulent,
a boon to man. You bring the conger, skinned, to the kitchen (its mottled skin slips off like a glove, leaving the grape of
the sea exposed to the world), naked, the tender eel glistens, prepared to serve our appetites. Now you take garlic, first,
caress that precious ivory, smell its irate fragrance, then blend the minced garlic with onion and tomato until the onion
is the color of gold. Meanwhile steam our regal ocean prawns, and when they are tender, when the savor is set in a sauce combining
the liquors of the ocean and the clear water released from the light of the onion, then you add the eel that it may be immersed
in glory, that it may steep in the oils of the pot, shrink and be saturated. Now all that remains is to drop a dollop of cream
into the concoction, a heavy rose, then slowly deliver the treasure to the flame, until in the chowder are warmed the essences
of Chile, and to the table come, newly wed, the savors of land and sea, that in this dish you may know heaven.
Ode to Conger Chowder is a nice poem about eel chowder where
Pablo really uses the power of words to do justice to this meal. The Imagery provided by this story just leaves one
hungry with a curiosity of why he never worked as a food critique for popular restaurants.
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And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in search
of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when, no they were not
voices, they were not words, nor silence,but from a street I was summoned,from the branches of night,abruptly from the others,among
violent firesor returning alone,there I was without a faceand it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth had no
way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made
my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure
wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating
plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And
I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of
the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
I especially enjoyed this poem due to
the fact that the author seems to be speaking as pure as one can, exploiting his true love and devotion to poetry. It
speaks volumes when one can pursue their true passion, regardless of financial or political pressure. The last line
of the poem, "My heart broke loose on the wind," is a timeless statement which seems to echo into eternity. |
A sand mermaid thats suitable
for Pablo's Next poem.
Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks
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All those men were there inside,
when
she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She
was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not
knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt
corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her
eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and
suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and
without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death. | |
I did not particularily enjoy this poem, as the poem sounds to be a reaction to an unenjoyable
time in life. The poem speaks only of the cruelty of man when presented with something truely beautiful, as opposed
to cleverly attacking those in opposition as the author has done in the past. The emotions of the author are palpable
with the incredibly detailed image described, however the pessimistic view toward the future leaves other works to be desired.
This poem can be conveyed through the eyes of a feminist point of view, very obviously protraying the beauty of women
and the unappreciation of said beauty by the men. The woman (mermaid) in this poem is both physically and verbally degrated
by the men.
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Ode To Salt by Pablo Neruda
This salt in the saltcellar
I once saw in the salt mines. I know you won't believe me, but it sings, salt sings, the skin of the salt mines sings with
a mouth smothered by the earth. I shivered in those solitudes when I heard the voice of the salt in the desert. Near Antofagasta
the nitrous pampa resounds: a broken voice, a mournful song. In its caves the salt moans, mountain of buried light,
translucent cathedral, crystal of the sea, oblivion of the waves.
And then on every table in the world, salt, we see
your piquant powder sprinkling vital light upon our food. Preserver of the ancient holds of ships, discoverer on the high
seas, earliest sailor of the unknown, shifting byways of the foam. Dust of the sea, in you the tongue receives a kiss from
ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned dish your ocean essence; the smallest, miniature wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us more than domestic whiteness; in it, we taste infinitude.
While I give him credit for writeing a poem on just salt this poem is not one of my favorites. He
gives the salt some personification by saying how it has feeling and how it can mourn. The immagry from this is salt,
nothing more nothing less and like salt it seems to be a dry substance that serves a perpuse but few find very exciteing as
to be able to put some real color and flavor into things. This may have been a personal challange to himself to see
if it was possible to actually write a poem about something simple and bland as salt.
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