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Article: Ode to Olive Oil by Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda 1951

Ode to Olive Oil by Pablo Neruda

We want to share with you this Ode to Oil by Pablo Neruda< /a>, one of the most important writers of the 20th century. The greatest poet of the 20th century in any language, as Gabriel García Márquez said. In the magazine «Caballo Verde», Pablo Neruda says: «Even if the poetry we are looking for… An impure poetry like a suit, like a body with nutrition stains and shameful attitudes, with wrinkles, observations, dreams, wakefulness, prophecy , declarations of love and hate, shaken beast, idylls, political beliefs, denials, affirmations, taxes.»
“Cover Cover “New elemental odes “ where “Ode to Oil” is included
This beautiful poem Ode to Oil belongs to New elementary odes, from 1956. The direct cause for which he began to write “Las Odas” was the proposal of Miguel Otero Silva, director of the Caracas newspaper “El Nacional” for a weekly poetry collaboration. He accepted on the condition that this collaboration not form part of the literary supplement, but that it be placed on the pages dedicated to chronicles: «Thus I managed to publish a long history of this time, of its things, of the trades, of the people, of the fruits, of the flowers, of life, of my position, of the struggle, in short, of everything that I could encompass my creation again in a vast cyclical impulse. Without further delay, he leaves you with these lines full of history and beauty:

Ode to Oil

Near the rustling grain, the waves of the wind in the oats,

the olive

of silvery volume, severe in its lineage, in its twisted earthly heart; the olives polished by the fingers that made the dove and the sea snail: green, innumerable, purest nipples of nature, and therein the dry olive groves where only blue sky with cicadas, and hard earth exist, there the prodigy, the perfect capsule of the olive filling the foliage with its constellations: later the pots, the miracle, the oil.

I love the homelands of olive oil, the olive groves of Chacabuco , in Chile, in the mornings the platinum forest plumes against the wrinkled mountain ranges in Anacapri, above, above the tyrannical light, the despair of the olive trees, on the map of Europe, Spain, like a marine gust.

Olive Oil, hidden and supreme condition of the pot, pedestal of partridges, celestial key of mayonnaise, soft and tasty on lettuces and supernatural in the hell of the archbishop’s silversides. Olive Oil, in our voice, in our chorus, with intimate powerful softness you sing; you are Castilian language: there are syllables of oil, there are useful and fragrant words like your fragrant matter. Not only wine sings, oil also sings, it lives in us with its ripe light and among the goods of the earth I set aside, oil, your inexhaustible peace, your green essence, your full treasure that descends from the springs of the olive tree.

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