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The brilliant Selma Martin is the Poet of the Week for this week’s W3 Weekly Poetry Prompt #74. Here are her guidelines:

Selma’s prompt guidelines

The iconic Chilean poet Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973) would have turned 119 this summer. Neruda was known for his historical epics, political manifestos, and love poems. Neruda’s incisive and joyful odes were often dedicated to ordinary objects making them approachable yet surreal. 

Click HERE to read “Ode to My Socks,” translated from Spanish by Robert Bly, in which Neruda describes his covered feet as “two fish made / of wool, / two long sharks / sea-blue.” 

Inspired by Neruda’s electric, surreal images, write a joyful ode to an ordinary object in your life. It doesn’t matter what it is, think kindly about how to honor and describe this praiseworthy item of yours. 

This particular poem of Neruda’s consists of 215 words, so try to bring yours close to the word count. Not exactly– close; but not too short. AND Joyful, remember!

My ode AN ODE TO FRANCIS comprises 293 words. Neruda’s ode stretched to 215 words. Are my ode’s 293 words close enough to the approximate 215 word count? The prompt said not to write it too short. Feel lucky. I could’ve gone on and on and on…

Ode to Francis

We didn’t fall in love
Not straight away; anyway
Cupid’s arrow was slow; there was delay
The dart from above 
Did not pierce my heart 
on Valentine’s Day.

One night, Francis disappeared…
I found him weeks later,
scuffed and dog-eared
He’d lain long nights under the bed
Forgotten,
Staring at the dust and bedsprings
(among other things)
He was lying there, unable to move
Left alone
Forgotten
Consigned to oblivion
Consigned to his doom
In the bedroom.
Alone in the dark,
Feeling blue 
(even though he is pink)
No food,
Nothing to drink,
Being eaten by mice…
It was not nice!
(he told me later) 

One day I was looking for a lost sock under the bed
I didn’t find the sock
I found Francis instead.

He was no longer new,
He appeared moth-eaten,
(gnawed by mice)
He looked rotten,
Beaten,
Forgotten
His stomach was gone,
The mice ate the grains
(grains that heat in the microwave)
The grains were mains for rat lunch!
The rodents did munch
on his innards
In the bedroom,
Under the bed, 
Was his grave,
His tomb
Nothing could save Francis

Until…

I looked for that sock…
When I picked him up
My eyes filled with tears,
I was in shock
(and full of remorse
I’d wanted a horse)

I stitched and sewed
And stuffed him with sweet lavender ears

Each night we chat
He has a childlike conversation
(Norfolk, his friend who is a sheep,
can’t talk at all, he can only sleep)
Francis is sweet and wise
And always lies on my pillow.
He won’t go near the floor
He remembers too well, 
the time before,
Down Below…
Left for dead…
Under the bed.

He cannot forget.
(and he doesn’t let me forget it either)


Lesley Scoble, September 2023

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NOTES
Francis arrived in my life along with a bouquet and chocolates on Valentine’s Day. I can’t remember the year. He is made of pink candlewick. The removable sack of grains that were inside his stomach were destroyed by the ravages of gnawing rodent teeth. The original purpose of this bag of grains was to heat them in the microwave, thus making Francis a warm comforter. He is a pig. Well, that’s what he is supposed to look like (a bit of an odd pig, if you ask me). I named him Francis after the painter Sir Francis Bacon.

My thanks to Selma Martin for your wonderful prompt and my thanks as always to David, The Skeptic’s Kaddish.

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A little bit about…

The odes of Pablo Neruda and Federico García Lorca

Pablo Neruda’s ode Ode To My Socks was the example ode for this prompt. It’s a wonderful poem. This is the first time I’ve read it. I now rate him as high as my favourite poet, García Lorca. I discovered that the poets knew each other.

In 1933 Neruda was the Chilean consul in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It was here that he met the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca.

Both Neruda and Lorca wrote an ode to American poet, essayist and journalist Walt Whitman  in 1929.

Pablo Neruda’s ode to Walt Whitman

Whitman, your beard is celestial,
Your voice the divine winds voice,
Your chest a well of patience
And your hands are the hands of a blacksmith 
forging new keys.

Federico García Lorca’s ode to Walt Whitman

Whitman, comrade,
I am not worthy of your shoe.
You died like tree trunks 
at the foot of a dry river.
Today you are in the worms.

I am a huge fan of Lorca. I love his play The House of Bernarda Alba and was lucky to play the role of Maid, in the Fringe Theatre, London.
I also filmed this production. Here is the poster I created for it.

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Lesley lives in the City of London Square Mile. An artist, actor and sculptor (her first ceramic sculpture won the V&A inspired by… Award). Scenic artist & book illustrator, playwright, (her musical play, Rapscallion performed in inner city schools and theatre school); TV dancer; Animator and illustrator for TV production. Set up Pinecone Studios Ltd and IIMSI Ltd drama and filmmaking workshops in London – producing award-winning films made by children.