Poem of the Week: "Ode to French Fries," by Pablo Neruda

I'm about to admit to what amounts to a cardinal sin for the modern, liberal-arts-college-graduate writing student: I don't like Pablo Neruda. There, I said it. I feel better already.

Neruda is one of those super-loved poets who is loved by poetry readers and non-poetry readers alike. He's basically a go-to referencef or everything "poetic" for contemporary "thinkers." Which, honestly, is probably one of the reasons I don't like him. He has his moments, but I've never understood why his poems have managed to reach people in a way that Rilke hasn't. Why?

Honestly, this column isn't here to explore that question (though, just to be clear, I think it's because Neruda is a love poet and Rilke is primarily concerned with death, and most people are secret sentimentalists who prefer the former). Instead, this post is going to celebrate that most glorious of foods: French fries! Because it is summer, and because french fries are awesome. I had some just yesterday, but quite frankly, the fries described in this poem sound like they could trump those anyday. Enjoy!


Ode to French Fries, by Pablo Neruda
Translated by Ken Krabbenhoft

What sizzles
in boiling
oil
is the world's
pleasure:
French
fries
go
into the pan
like the morning swan's
snowy
feathers
and emerge
half-golden from the olive's
crackling amber.

Garlic
lends them
its earthy aroma,
its spice,
its pollen that braved the reefs.
Then,
dressed
anew
in ivory suits, they fill our plates
with repeated abundance,
and the delicious simplicity of the soil.