I found the Neruda poem, if anyone's still interested: unfortunately, the
only translation I have is Ben Belitt's, not my favourite translator; but
here it is:
In Praise of Ironing
Poetry is pure white:
it emerges from the water covered in drops
all wrinkled, in a heap.
It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet,
has to be ironed, the sea in its whiteness;
and the hands keep on moving,
smoothing the holy surfaces.
So are things accomplished.
Each day, hands re-create the world,
fire is married to steel,
and the canvas, the linens and the cottons return
from the skirmishing of the laundries;
and out of light is born a dove.
Out of the froth once more comes chastity.
Cheers
Alison
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