Oda al presente by Pablo Neruda (poem)
This poem "Oda al presente" ("Ode to the Present") was written by Pablo Neruda (Parral, 1904-1973), a Chilean poet, diplomat, politician, and Nobel Prize winner. My high school English teacher, Ms. Hepburn, and my high school Spanish teacher, Ms. Cavo, did a collaborative poetry unit where they read Pablo Neruda's odes to us. I fell in love with this one and wanted to share it with you. It inspires me to seize the day and to savor the present moment which I intend to practice on the Camino.
Translated by Maria Jacketti
Oda al presente
by Pablo Neruda
by Pablo Neruda
Este
presente
liso
como una tabla,
fresco,
esta hora,
este día
limpio
como una copa nueva
— del pasado
no hay una
telaraña —
tocamos
con los dedos
el presente, cortamos
su medida,
dirigimos
su brote
está vivente, vivo,
nada tiene
de tiene de ayer irremediable,
de pasado perdido,
es nuesta criatura,
está creciendo
en este
momento, está llevando
arena, está comiendo
en nuestras manos,
cógelo,
que no resbale,
que no se pierda en sueños
ni palabras,
agárralo,
sujétalo,
y ordéndalo
hasta que te obedezca,
hazlo camino,
campana,
máquina,
beso, libro,
caricia
corta
su deliciosa
fragrancia de madera
y de ella
hazte una silla,
trenza
su respaldo,
pruébala,
¡o bien
escalera!
Sí,
escalera,
sube
en el presente,
peldaño,
firmes tras peldaño,
los pies en la madera
del presente,
hacia arriba,
hacia arriba,
no muy alto,
tan sólo
hasta que puedas
reparar
las goteras
del techo,
no muy alto,
no te vayas al cielo,
alcanza
las manzanas,
no las nubes,
ésas
déjalas
ir por el cielo, irse
hacia el pasado.
Tú
eres tu presente,
tu manzana:
tómala
de tu árbol,
levántala
en tu mano,
brilla
como una estrella,
tócala,
híncale el diente y ándate
silbando en el camino.
--------------------------------
Ode to the present
by Pablo Neruda
by Pablo Neruda
This
present moment,
smooth
as a wooden slab,
this
immaculate hour,
this day
pure
as a new cup
from the past —
no spider web
exists —
with our fingers,
we caress
the present;
we cut it
according to our magnitude;
we guide
the unfolding of its blossoms.
It is living,
alive —
it contains
nothing
from the irreparable past,
from the lost past,
it is our
infant,
growing at
this very moment, adorned with
sand, eating from
our hands.
Grab it.
Don’t let it slip away.
Don’t lose it in dreams
or words.
Clutch it.
Tie it,
and order it
to obey you.
Make it a road,
a bell,
a machine,
a kiss, a book,
a caress.
Take a saw to its delicious
wooden
perfume.
And make a chair;
braid its
back;
test it.
Or then, build
a staircase!
Yes, a
staircase.
Climb
into
the present,
step
by step,
press your feet
onto the resinous wood
of this moment,
going up,
going up,
not very high,
just so
you repair
the leaky roof.
Don’t go all the way to heaven.
Reach
for apples,
not the clouds.
Let them
fluff through the sky,
skimming passage,
into the past.
You
are
your present,
your own apple.
Pick it from
your tree.
Raise it
in your hand.
It’s gleaming,
rich with stars.
Claim it.
Take a luxurious bite
out of the present,
and whistle along the road
of your destiny.
Translated by Maria Jacketti
Source:
This was beautiful
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