ODE TO ENCHANTED LIGHT
by Pablo Neruda
Under the trees light
has dropped from the top of the sky,
light
like a green
latticework of branches,
shining
on every leaf,
drifting down like clean
white sand.
A cicada sends
its sawing song
high into the empty air.
The world is
a glass overflowing
with water.
PAINTING: “A Ray of Light,” watercolor by Derek Collins, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Prints available at etsy.com.
“A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who does not play has lost forever the child who lived in him and whom he will miss terribly.” PABLO NERUDA
Illustration: Wall Art in Valparaiso, Chile — photo by Janet Rudolph, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ODE TO THE PRESENT
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 unrepairable 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.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) was the pen name of the Chilean poet, diplomat and politician Neftali Ricardo ReyesBasoalto. He chose his pseudonym after Czech poet Jan Neruda. In 1971, Pablo Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Neruda often wrote in green ink because it was his personal symbol of desire and hope. Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez called him “the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language.” (Source: Wikipedia)
Illustration: “Apple Abstract” by Susana Fernandez, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
“A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who does not play has lost forever the child who lived in him and whom he will miss terribly.” PABLO NERUDA
Illustration: Wall Art in Valparaiso, Chile — photo by Janet Rudolph, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ODE TO ENCHANTED LIGHT
by Pablo Neruda
Under the trees light
has dropped from the top of the sky,
light
like a green
latticework of branches,
shining
on every leaf,
drifting down like clean
white sand.
A cicada sends
its sawing song
high into the empty air.
The world is
a glass overflowing
with water.
PAINTING: “A Ray of Light,” watercolor by Derek Collins, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Prints available at etsy.com.
ODE TO THE PRESENT
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 unrepairable 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.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) was the pen name of the Chilean poet, diplomat and politician Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. He chose his pseudonym after Czech poet Jan Neruda. In 1971, Pablo Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Neruda often wrote in green ink because it was his personal symbol of desire and hope. Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez called him “the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language.” (Source: Wikipedia)
Illustration: “Apple Abstract” by Susana Fernandez, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
BALZAC AND THE LITTLE CHINESE SEAMSTRESS
Novel Excerpt by Dai Sijie
We crept up to the suitcase. It was tied with a thick rope of plaited straw, knotted crosswise. We removed the rope and raised the lid in silence. Inside, piles of books shone in the light of our torch: a company of great Western writers welcomed us with open arms. On top was our old friend Balzac with five or six novels, then came Victor Hugo, Stendhal, Dumas, Flaubert, Baudelaire, Romain Rolland, Rousseau, Tolstoy, Gogol, Dostoyevsky, and some English writers, too: Dickens, Kipling, Emily Brontë…
We were beside ourselves. My head reeled, as if I’d had too much to drink. I took the novels out of the suitcase one by one, opened them, studied the portraits of the authors, and passed them on to Luo. Brushing them with the tips of my fingers made me feel as if my pale hands were in touch with human lives.
“It reminds me of a scene in a film,” said Luo. “You know, when a stolen suitcase turns out to be stuffed with money…”
“So, are you weeping tears of joy?” I said.
“No. All I feel is loathing.”
“Me too. Loathing for everyone who kept these books from us.”
Hearing myself utter this last sentence frightened me, as if there might be an eavesdropper hidden somewhere in the room. Such a remark, casually dropped, could cost several years in prison…
###
THOUGHTS ON THE NOVEL
Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress by Dai Sijie (Alfred A. Knopf, 2001) takes place in China during the Cultural Revolution of the early 1970s – when educated young adults from the big cities were sent to do hard labor in rural areas to learn about “real life” and rid them of Western influences.
The novel follows the fortunes of a young male narrator and his friend as they try to navigate an unfamiliar way of life, while maintaining their love of art and literature. The village headman recognizes their storytelling skills and once a week sends them to another remote town to view a propaganda film, then return and recount the movie scene by scene to the villagers — who listen with avid attention and emotional engagement.
Based on the author’s re-education experiences, this brilliant novel is about our need and our hunger for stories – stories are what keep us human, what keep us connected to other people. Stories are food for our souls. When the book’s main characters uncover a stash of hidden novels from the West in Chinese translation, as described in the above excerpt, they risk torture and imprisonment to feed their hungry souls.
The little seamstress in the title is a beautiful young woman the thieves take into their confidence – reading the smuggled books to her, and introducting her to the outside world.
Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress is a short novel (less than 200 pages) with a huge impact – bringing home our deep need for stories and storytellers.
Highly recommended — an all-time favorite! Find beautiful hardcover editions for just one (1!) cent (plus shipping) at Amazon.com.
I’ve gained most of my knowledge (what it is) not through histories, biographies, or other nonfiction works — but through what the professors call “world literature.” I’ve never read a complete biography of Napoleon, but have read his extensive depiction in War & Peace.
Yes, I’ll admit, most of my understanding of the world comes from literature, starting with Shakespeare and Dickens — and then moving around the globe. These writing hero/heroine guides are too numerous to mention, but I will applaud the literature of Great Britain, Ireland, Europe, Russia, China, Japan, Australia, Africa, South America, Latin America, Canada, India, and many other places not specifically mentioned.
All this is a preamble to my thoughts on The White Tiger, a novel set in India, by Arivind Adiga. First off, I’ll say this is one of the best novels I’ve ever read (hands down). Why do I love it? The book has all the components that, for me, make a work fascinating — unique voice, compelling main character, exotic location, an inside look at a subculture (taxi drivers in India), and an intriguing mystery.
Yesterday, I read an article on another blog about literary mashups (a woman had written an Oscar Wilde mashup called Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray). While I can’t say that most of the current mashups on the market appeal to me (you know, the ones that feature zombies, vampires, et al), I do love genre crossovers: Magic realism detective novels (Wind-up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami), science-fiction/comedy/war stories (Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut), and sci-fi-alternate histories (The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick).
All this leads me to another reason why I admire and adore The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga — it reminds me of Dostoyevsky meets Vonnegut meets Hamsun, while remaining totally original. The novel isn’t a mashup (which to me reads “ripoff”) but an homage to great world literature.
Hats off to young Mr. Adiga (born in 1974) who in 2008 won the prestigious Booker Prize for The White Tiger. (The novel is available at Amazon.com, where copies are on sale for just 1 cent plus shipping!)
To get a “free” flavor for Adiga’s masterful writing, check out his short story “The Elephant” in the New Yorker at this link.
Photo: Aravind Adiga winning the 2008 Booker Prize for The White Tiger.
Silver Birch Press 