Rainer Maria Rilke poems -

Rainer Maria Rilke HOME
Rainer Maria Rilke Childhood It would be good to give much thought, before you try to find words for something so lost, but for those long childhood afternoons you knew that vanished so completely --and why? We are still reminded--: sometimes by a rain, but we can no longer say what it means; life was never again so filled with meeting, with reunion and with passing on as back then, when nothing happened to us except what happens to things and creatures: we lived their world as something human, and became filled to the brim with figures. And became as lonely as a sheperd and as overburdened by vast distances, and summoned and stirred as from far away, and slowly, like a long new thread, introduced into that picture-sequence where now having to go on bewilders us Duino Elegies The First Elegy Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying. And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing. Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need? Not angels, not humans, and already the knowing animals are aware that we are not really at home in our interpreted world. Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside, which every day we can take into our vision; there remains for us yesterday's street and the loyalty of a habit so much at ease when it stayed with us that it moved in and never left. Oh and night: there is night, when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at our faces. Whom would it not remain for--that longed-after, mildly disillusioning presence, which the solitary heart so painfully meets. Is it any less difficult for lovers? But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate. Don't you know yet? Fling the emptiness out of your arms into the spaces we breathe; perhaps the birds will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying. Yes--the springtimes needed you. Often a star was waiting for you to notice it. A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past, or as you walked under an open window, a violin yielded itself to your hearing. All this was mission. But could you accomplish it? Weren't you always distracted by expectation, as if every event announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you going and coming and often staying all night.) But when you feel longing, sing of women in love; for their famous passion is still not immortal. Sing of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them, almost) who could love so much more purely than those who were gratified. Begin again and again the never-attainable praising; remember: the hero lives on; even his downfall was merely a pretext for achieving his final birth. But Nature, spent and exhausted, takes lovers back into herself, as if there were not enough strength to create them a second time. Have you imagined Gaspara Stampa intensely enough so that any girl deserted by her beloved might be inspired by that fierce example of soaring, objectless love and might say to herself, "Perhaps I can be like her?" Shouldn't this most ancient of sufferings finally grow more fruitful for us? Isn't it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved and, quivering, endured: as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension, so that gathered in the snap of release it can be more than itself. For there is no place where we can remain. Voices. Voices. Listen, my heart, as only saints have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them off the ground; yet they kept on, impossibly, kneeling and didn't notice at all: so complete was their listening. Not that you could endure God's voice--far from it. But listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms itself out of silence. It is murmuring toward you now from those who died young. Didn't their fate, whenever you stepped into a church in Naples or Rome, quietly come to address you? […]

Rainer Maria Rilke

Childhood

It would be good to give much thought, before
you try to find words for something so lost,
but for those long childhood afternoons you knew
that vanished so completely --and why?

We are still reminded--: sometimes by a rain,
but we can no longer say what it means;
life was never again so filled with meeting,
with reunion and with passing on

as back then, when nothing happened to us
except what happens to things and creatures:
we lived their world as something human,
and became filled to the brim with figures.

And became as lonely as a sheperd
and as overburdened by vast distances,
and summoned and stirred as from far away,
and slowly, like a long new thread,
introduced into that picture-sequence
where now having to go on bewilders us

Duino Elegies
The First Elegy

Who, if I cried out,
would hear me among the angels' hierarchies?
and even if one of them pressed me
suddenly against his heart:
I would be consumed
in that overwhelming existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror,
which we are still just able to endure,
and we are so awed because
it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying.
And so I hold myself back and swallow
the call-note of my dark sobbing.
Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?
Not angels, not humans,
and already the knowing animals are aware
that we are not really at home
in our interpreted world.
Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside,
which every day
we can take into our vision;
there remains for us yesterday's street and the loyalty
of a habit so much at ease
when it stayed with us
that it moved in and never left.
Oh and night: there is night, when a wind full
of infinite space gnaws at our faces.
Whom would it not remain for--that longed-after,
mildly disillusioning presence,
which the solitary heart so painfully meets.
Is it any less difficult for lovers?
But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate.
Don't you know yet?
Fling the emptiness out of your arms
into the spaces we breathe;
perhaps the birds will feel the expanded air
with more passionate flying.
Yes--the springtimes needed you.
Often a star was waiting for you to notice it.
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,
or as you walked under an open window,
a violin yielded itself to your hearing.
All this was mission. But could you accomplish it?
Weren't you always distracted by expectation,
as if every event announced a beloved?
(Where can you find a place to keep her,
with all the huge strange thoughts inside you
going and coming and often staying all night.)
But when you feel longing, sing of women in love;
for their famous passion is still not immortal.
Sing of women abandoned
and desolate (you envy them, almost)
who could love so much
more purely than those who were gratified.
Begin again and again the never-attainable
praising; remember: the hero lives on;
even his downfall was merely
a pretext for achieving his final birth.
But Nature, spent and exhausted,
takes lovers back into herself,
as if there were not enough strength
to create them a second time.
Have you imagined Gaspara Stampa
intensely enough
so that any girl deserted by her beloved
might be inspired by that
fierce example of soaring,
objectless love and might say to herself,
"Perhaps I can be like her?"
Shouldn't this most ancient of sufferings
finally grow more fruitful for us?
Isn't it time that we lovingly freed
ourselves from the beloved and,
quivering, endured: as the arrow
endures the bowstring's tension,
so that gathered in the snap of release
it can be more than itself.
For there is no place where we can remain.
Voices. Voices. Listen, my heart,
as only saints have listened:
until the gigantic call lifted them
off the ground;
yet they kept on, impossibly,
kneeling and didn't notice at all: so
complete was their listening.
Not that you could endure
God's voice--far from it.
But listen to the voice of the wind
and the ceaseless message that
forms itself out of silence.
It is murmuring toward you now
from those who died young.
Didn't their fate,
whenever you stepped into a church
in Naples or Rome,
quietly come to address you?
[…]