Among the many, many unusual kinds of poems that Pablo Neruda wrote, his Elemental Odes are justifiably celebrated. He produced an abundance of them, odes to just about everything including the most domestic of everyday articles. . . innumerable objects, pieces of homey flotsam, the stuff of every day life and his constantly wandering thoughts about how they could be shown in verse.

One that I especially like is not at all pedestrian, if that’s a proper word for his subject material in the odes. But it’s a favorite of mine. “Oda a la jardinera”, which I’ve translated here as “Ode to the woman in her garden”. This translation is for Bea Bowles.

Oda a la jardinera

Sí, yo sabía que tus manos eran
el alhelí florido, la azucena
de plata;
algo que ver tenías
con el suelo,
con el florecimiento de la tierra,
pero
cuando
te vi cavar, cavar,
apartar piedrecitas
y manejar raíces
supe de pronto,
agricultora mía,
que no sólo tus manos,
sino tu corazón
eran de tierra,
que allí
estabas haciendo
cosas tuyas,
tocando
puertas
húmedas
por donde
circulan
las
semillas.

Así, pues,
de una a otra
planta
recién
plantada,
con el rostro
manchado
por un beso
del barro,
ibas
y regresabas
floreciendo,
ibas
y de tu mano
el tallo
de la astromelia
elevó su elegancia solitaria,
el jazmín
aderezó
la niebla de tu frente
con estrellas de aroma y de rocío.

Todo
de ti crecía
penetrando
en la tierra
y haciéndose
inmediata
luz verde,
follaje y poderío.
Tú le comunicabas
tus semillas,
amada mía,
jardinera roja.
Tu mano
se tuteaba
con la tierra
y era instantáneo
el claro crecimiento.

Amor, así también
tu mano
de agua,
tu corazón de tierra,
dieron
fertilidad
y fuerza a mis canciones.
Tocas
mi pecho
mientras duermo
y los árboles brotan
de mi sueño.
Despierto, abro los ojos,
y has plantado
dentro de mí
asombradas estrellas
que suben
con mi canto.

Es así, jardinera:
nuestro amor
es
terrestre:
tu boca es planta de la luz, corola,
mi corazón trabaja en las raíces.

Ode to the woman in her garden

Yes, I knew that your hands were
the flowering clove, the lily
silvered:
that you had something to do
with the dirt,
with the earth's flourishing . . .
but
when
I saw you dig down, dig down,
to push aside the stones
and finger the roots,
I knew right then,
my farmer girl,
that not just your hands
but your heart
were of the earth,
that you
were making
things
there of your own,
touching
damp
doors
through which
circulate
the
seeds.

So, then,
from one plant
just
planted
to the next,
your face
stained
with a kiss
from the mud,
you came
and went
flourishing,
you went,
and from your hand
the astrolomeria's
stalk
raised its lonely elegance,
the jasmine
dressed
your snowy brow
with stars of scent and mist.

All
grew from you,
entering
the earth,
and turning
to immediate
green light,
foliage and might.
You made contact with
your seeds,
my love,
my red-faced garden girl:
your hand
familiared
the ground
and thus right then was
the growing made clear.

Love, so too
did your watery
hand,
your earthy heart,
give
fertility
and force to my songs.
You touch
my heart
as I sleep,
and the trees bloom
from my dream.
I wake up, I open my eyes,
and you've planted
in me
shadowed stars
that rise
with my song.

That's how it is, garden girl:
our love
is
of this earth:
your mouth is the plant of life, the petals of it,
while my heart works the roots.

Translation by Terence Clarke