Poet's Corner: four by Rainer Maria Rilke
Apr. 16th, 2021 01:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stonepicnicking_okapiFour selections by Rainer Maria Rilke.
The Drunkard's Song by Rainer Maria Rilke [this translation is by Linda Marshall; the one I I read, and the three section below, were translated by Stephen Mitchell]
it wasn’t in me. it went in and out.
I wanted to hold it. it held, with the wine.
(I no longer know what it was.)
then wine held this and that for me
till I could never leave him completely.
I am a fool.
now I play in his game and he shakes me out,
looking at me disdainfully and perhaps today
he will lose me to death – that brute!
if he wins me, the dirtiest card in the pack,
he’ll use me to scratch his scabs
and throw me away into the muck.
Rose, oh pure contradiction by Rainer Maria Rilke
Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy
of being No-one's sleep under so many lids.
[Now it is time that gods came walking out] by Rainer Maria Rilke
Now it is time that gods came walking out
of lived-in Things…
Time that they came and knocked down every wall
inside my house. New page. Only the wind
from such a turning could be strong enough
to toss the air as a shovel tosses dirt:
a fresh-turned field of breath. O gods, gods!
who used to come so often and are still
asleep in the Things around us, who serenely
rise and at wells that we can only guess at
splash icy water on your necks and faces,
and lightly add your restedness to what seems
already filled to bursting: our full lives.
Once again let it be your morning, gods.
We keep repeating. You alone are source.
With you the world arises, and your dawn
gleams on each crack and crevice of our failure…
For the sake of a single poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
Ah, but poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)–they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make as they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else–); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars,–and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves–only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
The Drunkard's Song by Rainer Maria Rilke [this translation is by Linda Marshall; the one I I read, and the three section below, were translated by Stephen Mitchell]
it wasn’t in me. it went in and out.
I wanted to hold it. it held, with the wine.
(I no longer know what it was.)
then wine held this and that for me
till I could never leave him completely.
I am a fool.
now I play in his game and he shakes me out,
looking at me disdainfully and perhaps today
he will lose me to death – that brute!
if he wins me, the dirtiest card in the pack,
he’ll use me to scratch his scabs
and throw me away into the muck.
Rose, oh pure contradiction by Rainer Maria Rilke
Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy
of being No-one's sleep under so many lids.
[Now it is time that gods came walking out] by Rainer Maria Rilke
Now it is time that gods came walking out
of lived-in Things…
Time that they came and knocked down every wall
inside my house. New page. Only the wind
from such a turning could be strong enough
to toss the air as a shovel tosses dirt:
a fresh-turned field of breath. O gods, gods!
who used to come so often and are still
asleep in the Things around us, who serenely
rise and at wells that we can only guess at
splash icy water on your necks and faces,
and lightly add your restedness to what seems
already filled to bursting: our full lives.
Once again let it be your morning, gods.
We keep repeating. You alone are source.
With you the world arises, and your dawn
gleams on each crack and crevice of our failure…
For the sake of a single poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
Ah, but poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)–they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make as they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else–); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars,–and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves–only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
no subject
Date: 2021-04-17 08:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-04-17 11:39 pm (UTC)Yes, I did like the imagery and the language. And, no, I don't actually agree with Rilke about all that but I like the ways he says what he expresses what he thinks. I had to take Minor to soccer today and All the Fascist Soccer Dads were there saying all kinds of shit and I forgot my earphones to drown them out and the coach got in a mess over something I warned him about earlier in the week. And I have had about enough of Listening to Men Say What They Think but if they said it like Rilke, it would sound a lot nicer :) I mean, one of the Dads tonight said out loud that we need another 9-11 to bring people together :/
no subject
Date: 2021-04-18 04:15 pm (UTC)I can do this rant every time I hear some RWNJ blather about September 11: I've written about this in my journal here but I have been living in NYC since 1980. Heard the second impact, saw the towers burning, still in possession of a piece of paper that I picked up from the snowdrift over Prospect Park in Brooklyn the next day(s). Breathed the towers for weeks or months, because the prevailing wind passed through my neighborhood. For someone to wish for another such day ... I actually shook with rage for a minute there.
no subject
Date: 2021-04-18 05:42 pm (UTC)But, yeah, they don't want another 9-11. They want a common scapegoat/enemy (which is always bad news for the scapegoat). And five minutes before (and after) they were bitching very loudly because in the county where the game was held the boys had to wear masks on the field as well as off (in our home county mask wearing is required just off the field, not during play), and I thought we HAVE a 9-11 every day with this pandemic and if they truly felt so strongly they would've kept their kids home so that's not what they meant. They want 'an other' we can all hate, and I just hate them. I don't know what the boys' father is going to decide about soccer for next year. The tryouts are next month if Minor's going to continue. He knows how I feel and what I go through. I'm curious what he's going to decide.
no subject
Date: 2021-04-18 06:05 pm (UTC)I'm really sorry that you're ever in a position where you have to hear them braying.
no subject
Date: 2021-04-21 10:38 am (UTC)I love Rilke soooo much. And Stephen Mitchell is very good at translating him. I can't remember if I showed you this post I made comparing three translations of Der Schwan: https://firecat.dreamwidth.org/796433.html
"The Drunkard's Song" > Wow, this is not like other Rilke I've read. Such violent imagery.
"[Now it is time that gods came walking out]" > blown away. What a prayer.
"For the sake of a single poem" > Beautiful. I love how he's talking about something that he's always moving toward and can't quite get to but he's going to do his best to describe it anyway.
Have I blathered to you about Wisława Szymborska yet? I thought of her because she wrote quite a few poems about writing poetry. Now there's a drinking establishment in my head where she and Rilke are sitting and having a conversation about it.
no subject
Date: 2021-04-21 04:53 pm (UTC)I have a fan art postcard of Booker doctoring his tea with booze, and that is what "The Drunkard's Song" reminded me of. Yes, very different from later stuff.
Yes, I like both those. And thanks for introducing me to Wislawa Szymborska! I posted 2 but I will be looking for more of her stuff.
Glad you're enjoying the poetry. It's not going anywhere so enjoy at your own pace. I put it up for April just because it's poetry month but poetry is something that takes even more time and concentration to appreciate so I don't expect anyone to keep up with my posting pace. And I'm behind myself, so there.