Ode To The Smell Of Wood

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sitting amongst a pile of work this afternoon (that I was avoiding) I was inspired by this photo of the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda (yes I was surfing the internet instead of working).

• What were his thoughts in that moment I wondered?
• Where was he?
• Who was the photographer?

In my distracted state I came across many of his poems and wanted to share this with you on the tree blog. Enjoy.

Ode To the Smell of Wood

by Pablo Neruda translated by Jody Bateman

Late, with the stars

open in the cold

I open the door.

The sea

galloped

in the night.

 

Like a hand

from the dark house

came the intense

aroma

of firewood in the pile.

 

The aroma was visible

as

if the tree

were alive.

As if it still breathed.

 

Visible

like a garment.

 

Visible

like a broken branch.

 

I walked

into

the house

surrounded

by that balsam-flavored

darkenss.

Outside

the points

in the sky sparkled

like magnetic stones

and the smell of the wood

 

touched

my heart

like some fingers,

like jasmine,

like certain memories.

 

It wasn’t the sharp smell

of the pines,

no,

it wasn’t

the break in the skin

of the eucalyptus,

neither was it

the green perfumes

of the grapevine stalk,

but

something more secret,

because that fragrance

only one

only one

time existed,

and there, of all I have seen in the world

in my own house at night, next to the winter sea,

was waiting for me

the smell

of the deepest rose,

the heart cut from the earth,

something that invaded me like a wave

breaking loose

from time

and it lost itself in me

when I opened the door

of the night.