Song Of The Orphan
I am no one and never will be anyone,
for I am far too small to claim to be;
not even later.
Mothers and Fathers,
take pity on me.
I fear it will not pay to raise me:
I shall fall victim to the mower's scythe.
No one can find me useful now: I am too young,
and tomorrow will be too late.
I only have one dress,
worn thin and faded,
but it will last an eternity
even before God, perhaps.
I only have this whispy hair
(that always remained the same)
yet once was someone's dearest love.
Now he has nothing that he loves.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Rememberance
And you wait, keep waiting for that one thing
which would infinitely enrich your life:
the powerful, uniquely uncommon,
the awakening of dormant stones,
depths that would reveal you to yourself.
In the dusk you notice the book shelves
with their volumes in gold and in brown;
and you think of far lands you journeyed,
of pictures and of shimmering gowns
worn by women you conquered and lost.
And it comes to you all of a sudden:
That was it! And you arise, for you are
aware of a year in your distant past
with its fears and events and prayers.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Falling Stars
Do you remember still the falling stars
that like swift horses through the heavens raced
and suddenly leaped across the hurdles
of our wishes--do you recall? And we
did make so many! For there were countless numbers
of stars: each time we looked above we were
astounded by the swiftness of their daring play,
while in our hearts we felt safe and secure
watching these brilliant bodies disintegrate,
knowing somehow we had survived their fall.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Slumber Song
Some day, if I should ever lose you,
will you be able then to go to sleep
without me softly whispering above you
like night air stirring in the linden tree?
Without my waking here and watching
and saying words as tender as eyelids
that come to rest weightlessly upon your breast,
upon your sleeping limbs, upon your lips?
Without my touching you and leaving you
alone with what is yours, like a summer garden
that is overflowing with masses
of melissa and star-anise?
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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The Song Of The Beggar
I am always going from door to door,
whether in rain or heat,
and sometimes I will lay my right ear in
the palm of my right hand.
And as I speak my voice seems strange as if
it were alien to me,
for I'm not certain whose voice is crying:
mine or someone else's.
I cry for a pittance to sustain me.
The poets cry for more.
In the end I conceal my entire face
and cover both my eyes;
there it lies in my hands with all its weight
and looks as if at rest,
so no one may think I had no place where-
upon to lay my head.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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The Neighbor
Strange violin, why do you follow me?
In how many foreign cities did you
speak of your lonely nights and those of mine.
Are you being played by hundreds? Or by one?
Do in all great cities men exist
who tormented and in deep despair
would have sought the river but for you?
And why does your playing always reach me?
Why is it that I am always neighbor
to those lost ones who are forced to sing
and to say: Life is infinitely heavier
than the heaviness of all things.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Song
(From the diaries of Malte Laurids Brigge)
You, whom I do not tell that all night long
I lie weeping,
whose very being makes me feel wanting
like a cradle.
You, who do not tell me, that you lie awake
thinking of me:--
what, if we carried all these longings within us
without ever being overwhelmed by them,
letting them pass?
Look at these lovers, tormented by love,
when first they begin confessing,
how soon they lie!
You make me feel alone. I try imagining:
one moment it is you, then it's the soaring wind;
a fragrance comes and goes but never lasts.
Oh, within my arms I lost all whom I loved!
Only you remain, always reborn again.
For since I never held you, I hold you fast.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Extinguish Thou My Eyes
Extinguish Thou my eyes:I still can see Thee,
deprive my ears of sound:I still can hear Thee,
and without feet I still can come to Thee,
and without voice I still can call to Thee.
Sever my arms from me, I still will hold Thee
with all my heart as with a single hand,
arrest my heart, my brain will keep on beating,
and Should Thy fire at last my brain consume,
the flowing of my blood will carry Thee.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Night (This night, agitated by the growing storm)
This night, agitated by the growing storm,
how it has suddenly expanded its dimensions--,
that ordinarily would have gone unnoticed,
like a cloth folded, and hidden in the folds of time.
Where the stars give resistance it does not stop there,
neither does it begin within the forest's depths,
nor show upon the surface of my face
nor with your appearance.
The lamps keep swaying, fully unaware:
is our light lying?
Is night the only reality
that has endured through thousands of years?
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Heartbeat
Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart
which safely exists in the center of all things?
His giant heartbeat is diverted in us
into little pulses. And his giant grief
is, like his giant jubilation, far too
great for us. And so we tear ourselves away
from him time after time, remaining only
mouths. But unexepectedly and secretly
the giant heartbeat enters our being,
so that we scream ----,
and are transformed in being and in countenance.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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In The Beginning
Ever since those wondrous days of Creation
our Lord God sleeps: we are His sleep.
And He accepted this in His indulgence,
resigned to rest among the distant stars.
Our actions stopped Him from reacting,
for His fist-tight hand is numbed by sleep,
and the times brought in the age of heroes
during which our dark hearts plundered Him.
Sometimes He appears as if tormented,
and His body jerks as if plagued by pain;
but these spells are always outweighed by the
number of His countless other worlds.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Death
Death is a road our dearest friends have gone;
Why with such leaders, fear to say, "Lead on?"
Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried,
But turns in balm on the immortal side.
Mothers have passed it: fathers, children; men
Whose like we look not to behold again;
Women that smiled away their loving breath;
Soft is the travelling on the road to death!
But guilt has passed it? men not fit to die?
O, hush -- for He that made us all is by!
Human we're all -- all men, all born of mothers;
All our own selves in the worn-out shape of others;
Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be ill-used brothers!
poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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The Voices
The rich and fortunate do well to keep silent,
for no one cares to know who and what they are.
But those in need must reveal themselves,
must say: I am blind,
or: I'm on the verge of going blind,
or: nothing goes well with me on earth,
or: I have a sickly child,
or: I have little to hold me together...
And chances are this is not nearly enough.
And because people try to ignore them as they
pass by them: these unfortunate ones have to sing!
And at times one hears some excellent singing!
Of course, people differ in their tastes: some would
prefer to listen to choirs of boy-castrati.
But God himself comes often and stays long,
when the castrati's singing disturbs Him.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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The Song Of The Widow
In the beginning life was good to me;
it held me warm and gave me courage.
That this is granted all while in their youth,
how could I then have known of this.
I never knew what living was----.
But suddenly it was just year on year,
no more good, no more new, no more wonderful.
Life had been torn in two right down the middle.
That was not his fault nor mine
since both of us had nothing but patience;
but death has none.
I saw him coming (how rotten he looked),
and I watched him as he took and took:
and nothing was mine.
What, then, belonged to me; was mine, my own?
Was not even this utter wretchedness
on loan to me by fate?
Fate does not only claim your happiness,
it also wants your pain back and your tears
and buys the ruin as something useless, old.
Fate was present and acquired for a nothing
every expression my face is capable of,
even to the way I walk.
The daily diminishing of me went on
and after I was emptied fate gave me up
and left me standing there, abandoned.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Night (O you whose countenance)
Night. O you whose countenance, dissolved
in deepness, hovers above my face.
You who are the heaviest counterweight
to my astounding contemplation.
Night, that trembles as reflected in my eyes,
but in itself strong;
inexhaustible creation, dominant,
enduring beyond the earth's endurance;
Night, full of newly created stars that leave
trails of fire streaming from their seams
as they soar in inaudible adventure
through interstellar space:
how, overshadowed by your all-embracing vastness,
I appear minute!---
Yet, being one with the ever more darkening earth,
I dare to be in you.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Lament (O how all things are far removed)
O how all things are far removed
and long have passed away.
I do believe the star,
whose light my face reflects,
is dead and has been so
for many thousand years.
I had a vision of a passing boat
and heard some voices saying disquieting things.
I heard a clock strike in some distant house...
but in which house?...
I long to quiet my anxious heart
and stand beneath the sky's immensity.
I long to pray...
And one of all the stars
must still exist.
I do believe that I would know
which one alone
endured,
and which like a white city stands
at the ray's end shining in the heavens.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Family of War
Every morning I awake I fall to my knees and pray.
God, please make the war in Iraq come to end.
There are too many fathers and sons come home
in pine boxes. There are too many mothers and daughters
doing the same. Leaving behind fathers and sons mothers
and daughter with a last memory of them waving goodbye.
There is too much blood and tears of fathers and sons mothers
and daughters being shed all in the name of peace.
God please let our leaders see how many families are dying
and that war can never bring peace. Only love can.
This prayer is my gun and God you’re the bullet I’m shooting
to end this Family of War.
The Last Supper
They are assembled, astonished and disturbed
round him, who like a sage resolved his fate,
and now leaves those to whom he most belonged,
leaving and passing by them like a stranger.
The loneliness of old comes over him
which helped mature him for his deepest acts;
now will he once again walk through the olive grove,
and those who love him still will flee before his sight.
To this last supper he has summoned them,
and (like a shot that scatters birds from trees)
their hands draw back from reaching for the loaves
upon his word: they fly across to him;
they flutter, frightened, round the supper table
searching for an escape. But he is present
everywhere like an all-pervading twilight-hour.
[On seeing Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper", Milan 1904.]
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Self-Portrait
The steadfastness of generations of nobility
shows in the curving lines that form the eyebrows.
And the blue eyes still show traces of childhood fears
and of humility here and there, not of a servant's,
yet of one who serves obediantly, and of a woman.
The mouth formed as a mouth, large and accurate,
not given to long phrases, but to express
persuasively what is right. The forehead without guile
and favoring the shadows of quiet downward gazing.
This, as a coherent whole, only casually observed;
never as yet tried in suffering or succeeding,
held together for an enduring fulfillment,
yet so as if for times to come, out of these scattered things,
something serious and lasting were being planned.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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The Song Of The Blindman
I am blind, you out there -- that is a curse,
against one's will, a contradiction,
a heavy daily burden.
I lay my hand on the arm of my wife,
my grey hand upon her greyer grey,
as she guides me through empty spaces.
You move about and stir, and imagine
your sounds differing from stone to stone.
But you are mistaken: I alone
live and suffer and complain, for
in me is an endless crying,
and I do not know whether it is
my heart that cries or my bowels.
Do you recognize these songs? You never sang them,
not quite with this intonation.
For you every morning brings its new light
warm through your open windows.
And you have the feeling from face to face
that tempts you to be indulgent.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Children Need Their Fathers
The mothers are now saying,
Their children need their fathers.
But weren't they they ones,
Who kept the fathers away?
And had the law hunt them down...
After having the courts chase they,
With warnings to keep their distance...
From these same children,
The mothers are saying...
Need their fathers!
And the fathers...
Who have discovered a peace of mind,
Are no longer trying to find excuses...
Why their fatherless children,
Seem to be out of their minds.
No matter who tries,
To blame their lack of discipline...
With no respect to others to show or give,
And put this on their shoulders...
To claim this is a reaction to their absence.
People who make decisions with ignorance,
Are always guaranteed to put their activities...
In the path of someone else to fault and shame!
'How many children raised by their mothers,
Compared to those raised by their fathers...
Have issues of discipline?
Or sit in prisons?
As a direct result of those who have created,
This statistic...
As if it had developed on its own!
Like hunger, homelessness and racism.'
~Excuse me?
I think you are looking for the excelerated classrooms.
You've stepped into a remedial one,
By mistake.~
'I'm sorry.
I was getting eye contact.
And immediately I thought they were paying attention.
Where are the excelerated classrooms? '
~Up those stairs, take a right...
And they will be the ones,
Where the light is shining bright.
You will not miss them.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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