Pablo Neruda

(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral)

Ode To Ironing - Poem by Pablo Neruda

Poetry is white:
it comes from water swathed in drops,
it wrinkles and gathers,
this planet's skin has to spread out,
the sea's whiteness has to be ironed out,
and the hands keep moving,
the sacred surfaces get smoothed,
and things are done this way:
the hands make the world every day,
fire conjoins with steel,
linen, canvas, and cotton arrive
from the scuffles in the laundries,
and from light a dove is born:
chastity returns out of the foam.

Topic(s) of this poem: house


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Poem Edited: Wednesday, March 18, 2015


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