As many of my beloved readers may have realized, I post new blogs on Thursdays and Sundays.  But today, Saturday, 17 July at exactly 3 pm London time, I am posting this special announcement.

Salt, the independent press that has been publishing beautiful cutting edge works of poetry and fiction for ten years, is suffering some financial difficulties.  Right now, at 3 pm London time at the South Bank, a “flash mob” is gathering to celebrate Salt’s achievements and perseverance in the face of this economic adversity.  If I was in London, I’d be there with them right now.  But I’m not.  Happily, though, the internet is and so I can participate virtually by being there in spirit, and on the internet, with my friends from Salt at exactly the same time.   Right now they are performing a group recitation of Pablo Neruda’s poem, Salt.  And all of us here now can join with them.  Let’s read it all together and then, go buy a Salt book or two.  There is so much to choose from.  You won’t be sorry.

Congratulations on your decade of service, Salt.  Here’s to many more:

Ode to Salt

This salt
in the salt cellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won’t
believe me
but
it sings
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those
solitudes
when I heard
the voice
of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a
broken
voice,
a mournful
song.

In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.
And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food.
Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste finitude.
Pablo Neruda