Rilke Translations Ii

Come, You by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation by Michael R. Burch This was Rilke’s last poem, written ten days before his death. He died open-eyed in the arms of his doctor on December 29, 1926, in the Valmont Sanatorium, of leukemia and its complications. I had a friend who died of leukemia and he was burning up with fever in the end. I believe that is what Rilke was describing here: he was literally burning alive. Come, you—the last one I acknowledge; return— incurable pain searing this physical mesh. As I burned in the spirit once, so now I burn with you; meanwhile, you consume my flesh. This wood that long resisted your embrace now nourishes you; I surrender to your fury as my gentleness mutates to hellish rage— uncaged, wild, primal, mindless, outré. Completely free, no longer future’s pawn, I clambered up this crazy pyre of pain, certain I’d never return—my heart’s reserves gone— to become death’s nameless victim, purged by flame. Now all I ever was must be denied. I left my memories of my past elsewhere. That life—my former life—remains outside. Inside, I’m lost. Nobody knows me here. Love Song by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation by Michael R. Burch How can I withhold my soul so that it doesn’t touch yours? How can I lift mine gently to higher things, alone? Oh, I would gladly find something lost in the dark in that inert space that fails to resonate until you vibrate. There everything that moves us, draws us together like a bow enticing two taut strings to sing together with a simultaneous voice. Whose instrument are we becoming together? Whose, the hands that excite us? Ah, sweet song! The Beggar’s Song by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation by Michael R. Burch I live outside your gates, exposed to the rain, exposed to the sun; sometimes I’ll cradle my right ear in my right palm; then when I speak my voice sounds strange, alien... I'm unsure whose voice I’m hearing: mine or yours. I implore a trifle; the poets cry for more. Sometimes I cover both eyes and my face disappears; there it lies heavy in my hands looking peaceful, instead, so that no one would ever think I have no place to lay my head. First Elegy Excerpt by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation by Michael R. Burch Who, if I objected, would hear me among the angelic orders? For if the least One pressed me intimately against its breast, I would be lost in its infinite Immensity! Because beauty, which we mortals can barely endure, is the beginning of terror; we stand awed when it benignly declines to annihilate us. Every Angel is terrifying! And so I restrain myself, swallowing the sound of my pitiful sobbing. For whom may we turn to, in our desire? Not to Angels, nor to men, and already the sentient animals are aware that we are all aliens in this metaphorical existence. Perhaps some tree still stands on a hillside, which we can study with our ordinary vision. Perhaps the commonplace street still remains amid man’s fealty to materiality— the concrete items that never destabilize. Oh, and of course there is the night: her dark currents caress our faces ... But whom, then, do we live for? That longed-for but mildly disappointing presence the lonely heart so desperately desires? Is life any less difficult for lovers? They only use each other to avoid their appointed fates! How can you fail to comprehend? Fling your arms’ emptiness into this space we occupy and inhale: may birds fill the expanded air with more intimate flying! Yes, the springtime still requires you. Perpetually a star waits for you to recognize it. A wave recedes toward you from the distant past, or as you walk beneath an open window, a violin yields virginally to your ears. All this was preordained. But how can you incorporate it? ... Weren't you always distracted by expectations, as if every event presaged some new beloved? (Where can you harbor, when all these enormous strange thoughts surging within you keep you up all night, restlessly rising and falling?) When you are full of yearning, sing of loving women, because their passions are finite; sing of forsaken women (and how you almost envy them) because they could love you more purely than the ones you left gratified. Resume the unattainable exaltation; remember: the hero survives; even his demise was merely a stepping stone toward his latest rebirth. But spent and exhausted Nature withdraws lovers back into herself, as if lacking the energy to recreate them. Have you remembered Gaspara Stampa with sufficient focus— how any abandoned girl might be inspired by her fierce example and might ask herself, "How can I be like her?" Shouldn't these ancient sufferings become fruitful for us? Shouldn’t we free ourselves from the beloved, quivering, as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension, so that in the snap of release it soars beyond itself? For there is nowhere else where we can remain. Voices! Voices! Listen, heart, as levitating saints once listened, until the elevating call soared them heavenward; and yet they continued kneeling, unaware, so complete was their concentration. Not that you could endure God's voice—far from it! But heed the wind’s voice and the ceaseless formless message of silence: It murmurs now of the martyred young. Whenever you attended a church in Naples or Rome, didn't they come quietly to address you? And didn’t an exalted inscription impress its mission upon you recently, on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa? What they require of me is that I gently remove any appearance of injustice— which at times slightly hinders their souls from advancing. Of course, it is endlessly strange to no longer inhabit the earth; to relinquish customs one barely had the time to acquire; not to see in roses and other tokens a hopeful human future; no longer to be oneself, cradled in infinitely caring hands; to set aside even one's own name, forgotten as easily as a child’s broken plaything. How strange to no longer desire one's desires!