η απορια του μη ησυχαζειν — Posts Tagged ‘rilke’

Insomniac passing anhypnic nights in writing, translation, music, mathematics, programming and whatever else captures my attention or alleviates agrypnia.


This consists mostly of quotations of things that stand out to me or reflect what's on my mind; occasionally I also post original, often more personal, content as well, which may be found under the "personal" tag. Anything posted under "translations" is also original work and may broadly be taken as personal as well as I seldom tackle a work that does not speak to or for me in some way.

October 15th, 2012 3:12pm

Lord, it is time. The summer was very long.
Now let your shadow fall across the dials,
and let the winds blow down the halls.

Instruct the final fruits to ripen;
give them yet two more days of warmth,
urge them toward fullness and chase
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who has no house now, has no more time to build one.
Who is now alone, will remain so a long time,
will lie awake, read, write long letters
and will restlessly wander up and down
the lanes, while the leaves are drifting.

Rilke, Das Buch der Bilder (1902–1906; The Book of Pictures)
March 30th, 2012 5:47pm

Also, das tat not für den und den,
weil sie Zeichen brauchten, welche schrieen.
Doch er träumte, Marthen und Marieen
müßte es genügen, einzusehn,
daß er könne. Aber keiner glaubte,
alle sprachen: Herr, was kommst du nun?
Und da ging er hin, das Unerlaubte
an der ruhigen Natur zu tun.
Zürnender. Die Augen fast geschlossen,
fragte er sie nach dem Grab. Er litt.
Ihnen schien es, seine Tränen flossen,
und sie drängten voller Neugier mit.
Noch im Gehen war ihm ungeheuer,
ein entsetzlich spielender Versuch,
aber plötzlich brach ein hohes Feuer
in ihm aus, ein solcher Widerspruch
gegen alle ihre Unterschiede,
ihr Gestorben-, ihr Lebendigsein,
daß er Feindschaft war in jedem Gliede,
als er heiser angab: Hebt den Stein!
Eine Stimme rief, daß er schon stinke,
(denn er lag den vierten Tag)—doch Er
stand gestrafft, ganz voll von jenem Winke,
welcher stieg in ihm und schwer, sehr schwer
ihm die Hand hob—(niemals hob sich eine
langsamer als diese Hand und mehr)
bis sie dastand, scheinend in der Luft;
und dort oben zog sie sich zur Kralle:
denn ihn graute jetzt, es möchten alle
Toten durch die angesaugte Gruft
wiederkommen, wo es sich herauf
raffte, larvig, aus der graden Lage—
doch dann stand nur Eines schief im Tage,
und man sah: das ungenaue vage
Leben nahm es wieder mit in Kauf.




Thus was it necessary for the common man,
who needed unsubtle, screaming signs.
Yet for Martha and Mary, he dreamed,
it would suffice them to see
that he could. But not for these;
they all asked: Lord, why come now?
And therefore he went, to work
the forbidden upon tranquil nature.
Angrily. With eyes mostly shut,
he asked them of the grave. He suffered.
To them, his tears seemed to flow,
and they thronged curiously around.
Even as they went, it was monstrous
to him, a horrible, pointless test,
but suddenly a great fire arose
within him, such a contradiction
against all their distinctions,
their being dead, their being alive,
that he was hostility in every limb
when hoarsely, he instructed: lift the stone!
Someone called out that he’d be stinking—
he’d been entombed four days—but He
stood tensed, suffused with the gesture
which rose in him and heavily, so heavily
raised his hand (never has raised
a hand more slowly than this)
until it stood there, shining in the air,
and hovering, clenched into a fist:
for the idea terrified him now, that
all the dead might wish to return
through the pull of the open tomb
where the larval corpse had gathered up
itself from the death posture—
but then stood only One slumped in the day,
and one saw: vague, uncertain
life received it back without complaint.

Rilke, “Auferweckung des Lazarus” / “Resurrection of Lazarus”; January 1913

A different resurrection (and attitude) for Easter.

(Source: danieldockery.com)

March 29th, 2012 6:30pm

You, my friend, are alone, because…
We, with words and pointing fingers,
gradually make the world our own—
perhaps its weakest, most hazardous part.


Who points fingers at a smell?
Yet you feel so many of those forces
that threaten us… You recognize the dead,
and you cower before the magic spell.


Look, now we together must manage
with piecework and parts, as if they were the whole.
Helping you will be hard. Above all:


don’t plant me in your heart. I’d grow too fast.
But I will guide my lord’s hand and say:
Here. Here is Esau in his pelt.

Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus: Written as a Grave Monument for Vera Ouckama Knoop, no. 16, translated by Edward Snow
March 2nd, 2012 9:32pm
How shall I keep my soul
from touching yours? How shall I
lift it up beyond you to other things?
Ah, I would gladly hide it
in darkness with something lost
in some silent foreign place
that doesn’t tremble when your deeps stir.
Yet whatever touches you and me
blends us together the way a bow’s stroke
draws one voice from two strings.
Across what instrument are we stretched taut?
And what player holds us in his hand?
O sweet song.
Rilke, “Love song” (translated by Edward Snow)
February 18th, 2012 7:12pm

Immer wieder, ob wir der Liebe Landschaft auch kennen.
und den kleinen Kirchhof mit seinen klagenden Namen.
und die furchtbar verschweigende Schlucht, in welcher die andern enden:
immer wieder gehn wir zu zweien hinaus
unter die alten Bäume, lagern uns immer wider
zwischen die Blumen, gegenüber dem Himmel.


 

Time and again, if we too know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard with its lamenting headstones
and the terrible, concealing pit in which the others
end: time and again, we go out in pairs
under the old trees, to tuck us always away
among the flowers, facing the sky.

Rilke, untitled, from Die Gedichte 1910–1922.

In memoriam: M.E.B. (4-May-1948 to 3-Nov-2011) & B.G.B. (3-Mar-1941 to 18-Feb-2012).

η απορια του μη ησυχαζειν

Insomniac passing anhypnic nights in writing, translation, music, mathematics, programming and whatever else captures my attention or alleviates agrypnia.


This consists mostly of quotations of things that stand out to me or reflect what's on my mind; occasionally I also post original, often more personal, content as well, which may be found under the "personal" tag. Anything posted under "translations" is also original work and may broadly be taken as personal as well as I seldom tackle a work that does not speak to or for me in some way.