And It Was at That Age

And It Was at That Age

Is a line from a Neruda
poem. I love Neruda
with his celebration

of common, everyday
items. He could build
a poem out of nails

and boards, and cement.
I wish I could iron
poetry as crisp as his.

I take words out of the laundry
basket, smooth them a bit,
spray Niagara all over,

and begin to press.
Steam rises but, somehow,
the creases are crooked,

the collars buckle,
then they hang lopsidedly
on hangars in my kitchen

waiting to be put away.
I hide these poems
in a dark closet

then sit in the living room,
open a book of poetry
by Pablo Neruda

and read of the sea,
his home, food, carpentry,
and fresh laundry.

ReadWritePoem Mini Challenge #3

Neruda wrote lovingly and hauntingly about his home.  I picked lines from quite a few of his poems in Absence and Presence and tried to find house connections.
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Stone, nails, planks, tiles, all.
I built the house
of cement, iron, glass.

In my house, I have gathered together
curtains,
useless
objects,
bread, wine, stew,
hyacinths,
the curve of shoes,
spectacles,
brooms,
time.

I may move in and out of windows.
I seem to be alone and not alone.

Here, I shall be both lost and found.

ReadWritePoem Mini Challenge #2

From Absence and Presence.  A cento patchworked together from lines from Pablo Neruda's poems.
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Look here, look for me here
I must feel the crash of the hard water.
I let my hands fall to the sea

for that is the place of joy.
Where the sea is concerned, I am
the ocean overflowing from its bottomless cup.

I have salty experience.
I am one who keeps turning out dreams,
dreams like a sea-green girl

to learn to return from such depths.
I need the sea because it teaches me~
the university of the waves.

ReadWritePoem Mini Challenge #1

ReadWritePoem's mini challenge asks us to fall in love with a poet and write a series of centos (patchwork poems) using various lines from his or her work.

When I got to school this morning, I perused my poetry bookcase and my eyes were drawn to Pablo Neruda's Absence and Presence.
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If I die, survive me with such sheer force

that I, lifeless, will see you living,

your lips still sweet, still wet,

that beneath all that sadness

little by little the creepers

will send fresh shoots

that of my own brief life.