druidspell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
druidspell) wrote2008-04-06 09:00 am
druidspell) wrote2008-04-06 09:00 am
Entry tags:
Day 6: "The Duino Elegies" Rainer Maria Rilke (translation by Gary Miranda)
Second Elegy
Every angel terrifies. Still, though I know
how almost-deadly you are, you birds of the soul,
I call out to you. Whatever happened to the days
of Tobias, when one of the most radiant of you
stood in the simple doorway, only slightly disguised
for the trip, and didn't seem frightening at all?
The young man peeked out, curious
and mistook you for just another young man.
But if that same angel today, threatening,
should take even a step from behind the stars
and move in our direction, the hammering
of our own hearts would kill us. Who are you?
Fortunate firstborns, favorites of creation,
mountain ranges whose peaks were reddened
by the first morning, pollen of a blossoming God,
hinges of light, corridors stairways thrones
and spaces constructed of sheer existence,
shields of delight, roaring storms of rapture
and, suddenly, singly, mirrors, drawing back
into their faces the very beauty they've spilt.
We -- we evaporate in our feelings. We exhale ourselves
and vanish. Our scent grows fainter as it passes
from ember to ember. Someone may say to us:
"Yes. You've gotten into my blood. This room,
this springtime -- it's full of you." But what for?
It can't hold us. We vanish in and around it.
And even those who are beautiful -- can anyone keep them
from vanishing? The appearance of beauty
seems fixed in their faces for always, and, always,
it fades. Everything we are evaporates --
like dew from the spring grass, or steam from hot food.
A smile -- where does it go? A glance -- new, warm,
a gesture of the heart -- oh it hurts to say it,
but this is what we are! Does the universe taste
of us, then, since we spill ourselves into it?
Do the angels really retrieve only what is theirs,
what has spilt from them, or do they at times,
by accident, get a little of our existence mixed in?
-- Just a little, mixed in with their features,
like that certain look on the faces of pregnant women
which they don't even notice as they spiral back
into themselves. (And why should they notice?)
Lovers, if they knew it, could say marvelous things
in the night air. But it seems that everything
wants to keep us a secret. Look: the trees, they exist;
the houses we live in still stand. And yet
we pass it all by like an exchange of breath.
And it all agrees to ignore us -- half out of shame,
perhaps, and half from some secret hope.
You lovers, so self-satisfied, I ask you about us.
You hold each other. But where's your proof?
Look, sometimes my hands happen to find and hold
each other, or my worn-out face finds refuge
in being held by them. That gives me a slight sensation.
And yet who, just for that, would be brave enough to exist?
So I ask you -- you who build and build on each other's
excitement until, overwhelmed, one of you cries "No more!";
who under each other's hands grow fuller and fuller,
like vintage years; who sometimes sink back,
but only because the other completely takes over --
I ask you about us. I know why touching each other
gives you such pleasure: because caressing staves off
something; because the place you cover so tenderly
doesn't vanish; because you sense the pure permanence
beneath it. And so every embrace seems to promise
eternity. But really, once you've survived that first
shock of encounter, and the gazing from windows,
and the first walk together in the garden,
that can happen just once -- lovers, are you really
these things any longer? When you raise yourselves
to each other's lips -- a drink raised to a drink --
how strangely the role of the drinker seems to get lost!
But think of those Attic steles, how they amazed you.
How cautious those human gestures seemed. How gently
love and parting rested on the shoulders, as though
they were made of other stuff than what we know.
Remember the hands, how they touched without pressure,
despite the strength you could see in the torsos.
Self-controlled, they knew: we have come this far;
this much is ours, to touch each other just so.
The gods may press down harder on us.
But that's the concern of the gods.
If only we could attain such pure, unrestrained humanity.
If only we could find our own little strip of fertile land,
with a river on one side and rocks on the other.
For our heart too is always escaping. And we can't
look after it in soothing pictures any more,
or in godlike bodies, that teach it greater control.
Every angel terrifies. Still, though I know
how almost-deadly you are, you birds of the soul,
I call out to you. Whatever happened to the days
of Tobias, when one of the most radiant of you
stood in the simple doorway, only slightly disguised
for the trip, and didn't seem frightening at all?
The young man peeked out, curious
and mistook you for just another young man.
But if that same angel today, threatening,
should take even a step from behind the stars
and move in our direction, the hammering
of our own hearts would kill us. Who are you?
Fortunate firstborns, favorites of creation,
mountain ranges whose peaks were reddened
by the first morning, pollen of a blossoming God,
hinges of light, corridors stairways thrones
and spaces constructed of sheer existence,
shields of delight, roaring storms of rapture
and, suddenly, singly, mirrors, drawing back
into their faces the very beauty they've spilt.
We -- we evaporate in our feelings. We exhale ourselves
and vanish. Our scent grows fainter as it passes
from ember to ember. Someone may say to us:
"Yes. You've gotten into my blood. This room,
this springtime -- it's full of you." But what for?
It can't hold us. We vanish in and around it.
And even those who are beautiful -- can anyone keep them
from vanishing? The appearance of beauty
seems fixed in their faces for always, and, always,
it fades. Everything we are evaporates --
like dew from the spring grass, or steam from hot food.
A smile -- where does it go? A glance -- new, warm,
a gesture of the heart -- oh it hurts to say it,
but this is what we are! Does the universe taste
of us, then, since we spill ourselves into it?
Do the angels really retrieve only what is theirs,
what has spilt from them, or do they at times,
by accident, get a little of our existence mixed in?
-- Just a little, mixed in with their features,
like that certain look on the faces of pregnant women
which they don't even notice as they spiral back
into themselves. (And why should they notice?)
Lovers, if they knew it, could say marvelous things
in the night air. But it seems that everything
wants to keep us a secret. Look: the trees, they exist;
the houses we live in still stand. And yet
we pass it all by like an exchange of breath.
And it all agrees to ignore us -- half out of shame,
perhaps, and half from some secret hope.
You lovers, so self-satisfied, I ask you about us.
You hold each other. But where's your proof?
Look, sometimes my hands happen to find and hold
each other, or my worn-out face finds refuge
in being held by them. That gives me a slight sensation.
And yet who, just for that, would be brave enough to exist?
So I ask you -- you who build and build on each other's
excitement until, overwhelmed, one of you cries "No more!";
who under each other's hands grow fuller and fuller,
like vintage years; who sometimes sink back,
but only because the other completely takes over --
I ask you about us. I know why touching each other
gives you such pleasure: because caressing staves off
something; because the place you cover so tenderly
doesn't vanish; because you sense the pure permanence
beneath it. And so every embrace seems to promise
eternity. But really, once you've survived that first
shock of encounter, and the gazing from windows,
and the first walk together in the garden,
that can happen just once -- lovers, are you really
these things any longer? When you raise yourselves
to each other's lips -- a drink raised to a drink --
how strangely the role of the drinker seems to get lost!
But think of those Attic steles, how they amazed you.
How cautious those human gestures seemed. How gently
love and parting rested on the shoulders, as though
they were made of other stuff than what we know.
Remember the hands, how they touched without pressure,
despite the strength you could see in the torsos.
Self-controlled, they knew: we have come this far;
this much is ours, to touch each other just so.
The gods may press down harder on us.
But that's the concern of the gods.
If only we could attain such pure, unrestrained humanity.
If only we could find our own little strip of fertile land,
with a river on one side and rocks on the other.
For our heart too is always escaping. And we can't
look after it in soothing pictures any more,
or in godlike bodies, that teach it greater control.