Five poems about everyday objects

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Five poems about everyday objects

Five poems about everyday objects

While poetry is often concerned with ideas of the sublime and grandeur, there is an equal importance to capture simplicity in poems, and seek the same beauty in ordinary things. Many poets find their inspiration in mundane, regular objects that others might pass by without a second glance. Here are five poems that provide a different perspective on objects that are often taken for granted.

Ode to my Socks

- Pablo Neruda Maru Mori brought me a pair of socks which she knitted herself with her sheepherder’s hands, two socks as soft as rabbits. I slipped my feet into them as though into two cases knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin. Violent socks, my feet were two fish made of wool, two long sharks sea-blue, shot through by one golden thread, two immense blackbirds, two cannons: my feet were honored in this way by these heavenly socks. They were so handsome for the first time my feet seemed to me unacceptable like two decrepit firemen, firemen unworthy of that woven fire, of those glowing


Nevertheless I resisted the sharp temptation to save them somewhere as schoolboys keep fireflies, as learned men collect sacred texts, I resisted the mad impulse to put them into a golden cage and each day give them birdseed and pieces of pink melon. Like explorers in the jungle who hand over the very rare green deer to the spit and eat it with remorse, I stretched out my feet and pulled on the magnificent socks

and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this: beauty is twice beauty and what is good is doubly good when it is a matter of two socks made of wool

in winter.

Pablo Neruda was a Chilean poet and politician who wrote prolifically in the twentieth century. Neruda’s work comprised a range of styles and has been translated into many languages. He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1971, and he is often praised as one of the greatest poets who wrote in the Spanish language. ***

The Chairs No One Sits In

 - Billy Collins You see them on porches and on lawns down by the lakeside,

usually arranged in pairs implying a couple 

who might sit there and look out at the water or the big shade trees.

The trouble is you never see anyone 

sitting in these forlorn chairs though at one time it must have seemed

a good place to stop and do nothing for a while. 

Sometimes there is a little table between the chairs where no one

is resting a glass or placing a book facedown. 

It might be none of my business, but it might be a good idea one day

for everyone who placed those vacant chairs 

on a veranda or a dock to sit down in them for the sake of remembering

whatever it was they thought deserved 

to be viewed from two chairs side by side with a table in between.

The clouds are high and massive that day. 

The woman looks up from her book. The man takes a sip of his drink.

Then there is nothing but the sound of their looking, 

the lapping of lake water, and a call of one bird then another, cries of joy or warning—

it passes the time to wonder which.

Billy Collins is a poet who was born in New York, and is known as the “most popular poet in America.” His work features both wit and humour as well as keen insight into everyday objects and occurrences. This poem animates an ordinary visual, imagining the absent humans that the chairs indicate. ***


- Sylvia Plath They are the last romantics, these candles: Upside-down hearts of light tipping wax fingers, And the fingers, taken in by their own haloes, Grown milky, almost clear, like the bodies of saints.

It is touching, the way they'll ignore

A whole family of prominent objects Simply to plumb the deeps of an eye In its hollow of shadows, its fringe of reeds, And the owner past thirty, no beauty at all.

Daylight would be more judicious,

Giving everybody a fair hearing. They should have gone out with the balloon flights and the stereopticon. This is no time for the private point of view. When I light them, my nostrils prickle.

Their pale, tentative yellows

Drag up false, Edwardian sentiments, And I remember my maternal grandmother from Vienna. As a schoolgirl she gave roses to Franz Josef. The burghers sweated and wept. The children wore white.

And my grandfather moped in the Tyrol,

Imagining himself a headwaiter in America, Floating in a high-church hush Among ice buckets, frosty napkins. These little globes of light are sweet as pears.

Kindly with invalids and mawkish women,

They mollify the bald moon. Nun-souled, they burn heavenward and never marry. The eyes of the child I nurse are scarcely open. In twenty years I shall be retrograde

As these drafty ephemerids.

I watch their spilt tears cloud and dull to pearls. How shall I tell anything at all To this infant still in a birth-drowse? Tonight, like a shawl, the mild light enfolds her,

The shadows stoop over the guests at a christening.

Sylvia Plath was an American poet best known for having contributed to the school of confessional poetry. Much of her work is deeply personal, often with themes of fierce emotion, despair, and death. This poem, however, takes a gentler tone, reflecting the soft warmth of its subject. ***

Ode to the Clothesline

 - Kwame Dawes            After Alfred Stieglitz Not so much the missing of things

but the nostalgia of colors, their music,

the ordinary revelation of a family’s life

caught in the flop and dance, a jig,

if you will, of their layers, outer and inner skins,

the secret things so close to the body,

the taste, the salt and sweet of blood, and shit,

and piss, and then, rinsed and scrubbed, leaving

beneath the astringent scent of soap

a musky marker of self for strays

to smell or imagine as they walk

past the parade of the living

on taut lines, propped by poles

with nails for a hook, above

the startling green of grass and hedge,

the barefaced concrete steps,

the sky, inscrutable as a wall;

this is what one carries as a kind

of sweetness — the labor of brown hands,

elbow-deep in suds, the rituals

of cleansing, the humility of a darning

or a frayed crotch, the dignity

of cleanliness, the democracy of truth,

the way we lived our lives in the open.

Kwame Dawes is a Ghanaian poet who grew up in Jamaica, and who has published multiple novels, poetry collections, and non-fiction works. This poem celebrates the activity of clothes-hanging with vivid imagery, ascribing care and a sort of intimacy to the chore. ***


 - William Matthews How easily happiness begins by dicing onions. A lump of sweet butter slithers and swirls across the floor of the sauté pan, especially if its errant path crosses a tiny slick

of olive oil. Then a tumble of onions.

This could mean soup or risotto or chutney (from the Sanskrit chatni, to lick). Slowly the onions go limp and then nacreous and then what cookbooks call clear,

though if they were eyes you could see

clearly the cataracts in them. It’s true it can make you weep to peel them, to unfurl and to tease from the taut ball first the brittle, caramel-colored and decrepit

papery outside layer, the least

recent the reticent onion wrapped around its growing body, for there’s nothing to an onion but skin, and it’s true you can go on weeping as you go on in, through

the moist middle skins, the sweetest

and thickest, and you can go on in to the core, to the bud-like, acrid, fibrous skins densely clustered there, stalky and in- complete, and these are the most

pungent, like the nuggets of nightmare

and rage and murmury animal comfort that infant humans secrete. This is the best domestic perfume. You sit down to eat with a rumor of onions still on your twice-washed

hands and lift to your mouth a hint

of a story about loam and usual endurance. It’s there when you clean up and rinse the wine glasses and make a joke, and you leave the minutest whiff of it on the light switch,

later, when you climb the stairs.

William Matthews was an American poet who was born in Ohio. In addition to publishing 11 books of poetry, Mathews worked in academia in different parts of the United States. This poem takes a reader on a sensory journey, capturing the familiar act of cooking with onions.

Read more poetry at Bengaluru Review: Perceiving the world like a child A cautionary tale of choice and will Six poets who fought against oppression  

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