Pablo Neruda: Ode to Conger Chowder and Ode to Wine
Ode To Conger Chowder
by Pablo Neruda
Pome suggested by Ginger Smart special for Club del Vino participants
Bellow Oda al Vino in Spanish and English.
In the storm-tossed
Chilean
sea
lives the rosy conger,
giant eel
of snowy flesh.
And in Chilean
stewpots,
along the coast,
was born the chowder,
thick and succulent,
a boon to man.
You bring the conger, skinned,
to the kitchen
(its mottled skin slips off
like a glove,
leaving the
grape of the sea
exposed to the world),
naked,
the tender eel
glistens,
prepared
to serve our appetites.
Now
you take
garlic,
first, caress
that precious
ivory,
smell
its irate fragrance,
then
blend the minced garlic
with onion
and tomato
until the onion
is the color of gold.
Meanwhile steam
our regal
ocean prawns,
and when
they are
tender,
when the savor is
set in a sauce
combining the liquors
of the ocean
and the clear water
released from the light of the onion,
then
you add the eel
that it may be immersed in glory,
that it may steep in the oils
of the pot,
shrink and be saturated.
Now all that remains is to
drop a dollop of cream
into the concoction,
a heavy rose,
then slowly
deliver
the treasure to the flame,
until in the chowder
are warmed
the essences of Chile,
and to the table
come, newly wed,
the savors
of land and sea,
that in this dish
you may know heaven.
Ode to wine
Pablo Neruda
Wine the color of day,
wine the color of night,
wine with purple feet
or topaz blood,
wine,
starlit son
of the earth,
wine, sleek
like a golden sword,
smooth
like a mussy velvet,
wine spiraled
and suspended,
loving,
mariner,
you have never fit in a glass,
in a song, in a man,
coral, gregarious you are,
and at least, reciprical.
Sometimes
you feed on deadly
memories,
on your wave
we go from grave to grave,
stonecutter of a frozen grave,
and we cry
momentary tears,
but
your beautiful
spring gown
is different,
your heart rises to the limbs,
the wind moves the day,
nothing remains
inside your motionless soul.
Wine
moves springtime,
it grows like a joyous plant,
walls tumble,
boulders,
the abysses close,
a song is born.
Oh you, pitcher of wine, in the desert
with the savory taste that I love,
said the old poet.
The pitcherful of wine
joins your kiss to the kiss of love.
My love, suddenly
your hip
is the full curve
of the wineglass,
your bosom is the bouquet,
the light is the alcohol of your hair,
the grapes your nipples,
your navel a pure seal
stamped on your vessel of a belly,
and your love the cascade
of insatiable wine,
the clarity that falls on my senses,
the earthly splendor of life.
But not only love,
a burning kiss
or a burnt heart
are you, wine of life,
but
friendship of beings, transparency,
a chorus of discipline,
an abundance of flowers.
On a table I love,
as one is conversing,
the light from a bottle
of intelligent wine.
May they drink it,
may they remember in each
golden drop
or glass of topaz
or purple spoon,
that autumn worked
until the vessels of wine were filled
and may the sinister man learn,
in the ceremonial of his business,
to remember the earth and its obligations,
to propogate the song of the fruit.
___________________________________
Oda al vino
Oda al vino
Vino color de día,
vino color de noche,
vino con pies de púrpura
o sangre de topacio,
vino,
estrellado hijo
de la tierra,
vino, liso
como una espada de oro,
suave
como un desordenado terciopelo,
vino encaracolado
y suspendido,
amoroso,
marino,
nunca has cabido en una copa,
en un canto, en un hombre,
coral, gregario eres,
y cuando menos, mutuo.
A veces
te nutres de recuerdos
mortales,
en tu ola
vamos de tumba en tumba,
picapedrero de sepulcro helado,
y lloramos
lágrimas transitorias,
pero
tu hermoso
traje de primavera
es diferente,
el corazón sube a las ramas,
el viento mueve el día,
nada queda
dentro de tu alma inmóvil.
El vino
mueve la primavera,
crece como una planta la alegría,
caen muros,
peñascos,
se cierran los abismos,
nace el canto.
Oh tú, jarra de vino, en el desierto
con la sabrosa que amo,
dijo el viejo poeta.
Que el cántaro de vino
al beso del amor sume su beso.
Amor mio, de pronto
tu cadera
es la curva colmada
de la copa,
tu pecho es el racimo,
la luz del alcohol tu cabellera,
las uvas tus pezones,
tu ombligo sello puro
estampado en tu vientre de vasija,
y tu amor la cascada
de vino inextinguible,
la claridad que cae en mis sentidos,
el esplendor terrestre de la vida.
Pero no sólo amor,
beso quemante
o corazón quemado
eres, vino de vida,
sino
amistad de los seres, transparencia,
coro de disciplina,67
abundancia de flores.
Amo sobre una mesa,
cuando se habla,
la luz de una botella
de inteligente vino.
Que lo beban,
que recuerden en cada
gota de oro
o copa de topacio
o cuchara de púrpura
que trabajó el otoño
hasta llenar de vino las vasijas
y aprenda el hombre oscuro,
en el ceremonial de su negocio,
a recordar la tierra y sus deberes,
a propagar el cántico del fruto.
.o0o.
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About Cecilio Augusto Berndsen
Information Technology, Management, Project Management and Public Administration are areas I am familiar with.
I am also interested in photography, wine, sailing, politics, economics, and economic development.
Club del Vino - Washington DC area 
I read the poem but in actually
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To all: I read the poem at the meeting shown in the blog but I can‘t take credit for suggesting it. Pedro Turina, a Chilean who is a former active member of the wine club suggested we use this poem in our presentation. Respectfully, Ginger Smart
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