POEM: Responding to Pablo Neruda’s “In Praise of Ironing”

By:
On:

I watched an old man work with clay.

Gather it in. Flatten it out.

Raise it up then smack it down,

releasing the bubbles, refining it.

He could make a vase beautiful

to remind us of love. Or a mask

whimsical to remind us of youth.

When he made plates, we forgot

the mundane secrets of our truth

and through that he gave us hope.

Then I saw a maker of tile and

watched him work the clay.

Gather it in. Flatten it out.

Raise it up then smack it down.

Releasing the bubbles, refining it.

Behind him: the stack of tiles.

Beyond that: rooftops resembling

a field paved orange. Clay tiles

no longer dreaming

of an artisan’s hands.

—Tim Bryant

In Praise of Ironing Pablo Neruda

Bad things happened, an entire run of them that shut me down, caused me to withdraw from everything except my inner self.

One afternoon, in a hammock, I took a photo of myself. Just my legs. But there was no one to send it to. No one to understand.

I needed a sidekick so I sketched an armadillo because they’re crusty on the outside but not within. I made him my butler. Crusoe’s manservant Friday.

We began interacting—my hammock photo speaking to that critter, that critter speaking back.There’s a folder of cartoons somewhere. For now there’s just this one. (LINK)

Eventually after that I began writing novels.

I’m still a hermit, marooned you might say, but leaving my shell more and more—my inner self seeking its freedom through writing.