Ode To The Seagull

To the seagull

high above

the pinewoods

of the coast,

on the wind

the sibilant

syllable of my ode.

Sail,

bright boat,

winged banner,

in my verse,

stitch,

body of silver,

your emblem

across the shirt

of the icy firmament,

oh, aviator,

gentle

serenade of flight,

snow arrow, serene

ship in the transparent storm,

steady, you soar

while

the hoarse wind sweeps

the meadows of the sky.

After your long voyage,

feathered magnolia,

triangle borne

aloft on the air,

slowly you regain

your form,

arranging

your silvery robes, shaping

your bright treasure in an oval,

again a

white bud of flight,

a round

seed,

egg of beauty.

Another

poet

would end here

his triumphant ode.

I cannot

limit myself

to

the luxurious whiteness

of useless froth.

Forgive me,

seagull,

I am

a realist

poet,

photographer of the sky.

You eat,

and eat,

and eat,

there is nothing

you don't devour,

on the waters of the bay

you bark

like a beggar's dog,

you pursue

the last

scrap of

fish gut,

you peck

at your white sisters,

you steal

your despicable prize,

a rotting clump

of floating garbage,

decayed

tomatoes,

the discarded

rubbish of the cove.

But

in you

it is transformed

into clean wing,

white geometry,

the ecstatic line of flight.

That is why

snowy anchor,

aviator,

I celebrate you as you are:

your insatiable voraciousness,

your screech in the rain,

or at rest

a snowflake blown

from the storm,

at peace or in flight,

seagull,

I consecrate to you

my earthbound words,

my clumsy attempt at flight;

let's see whether you scatter

your birdseed in my ode.

~ Pablo Neruda

Spanish; trans. Margaret Sayers Peden