tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8843657004995977836.post7421485621752654795..comments2023-10-13T05:28:12.586-04:00Comments on the fifth day of may: rilke on eurydicemarinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16771713105738919113noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8843657004995977836.post-76040419950978620282009-01-12T20:47:00.000-05:002009-01-12T20:47:00.000-05:00I have long been haunted by the Orpheus and Eurydi...I have long been haunted by the Orpheus and Eurydice story ... <BR/><BR/>Stephen Mitchell's was the translation through which I first encountered Rilke's stunning immersion into the these depths of grief and longing and the human capacity to transform darkness into song, the unfinished call to our own transcendence ...<BR/><BR/>Mitchell's translations of the Sonnet's to Orpheus take us even deeper into Rilke's later relationship to the myth ...<BR/><BR/>By the way, Marina - what is your Eurydice project all about?<BR/><BR/>-Peter<BR/><BR/>http://www.amazon.com/Selected-Poetry-Rainer-Maria-Rilke/dp/0679722017/ref=sr_1_9?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231810951&sr=1-9<BR/><BR/>http://www.stephenmitchellbooks.com/transAdapt/poetryRilkeExcerpt.html<BR/><BR/>ORPHEUS. EURYDICE. HERMES<BR/><BR/>That was the deep uncanny mine of souls.<BR/>Like veins of silver ore, they silently<BR/>moved through its massive darkness. Blood welled up<BR/>among the roots, on its way to the world of men,<BR/>and in the dark it looked as hard as stone.<BR/>Nothing else was red.<BR/><BR/>There were cliffs there,<BR/>and forests made of mist. There were bridges<BR/>spanning the void, and that great gray blind lake<BR/>which hung above its distant bottom<BR/>like the sky on a rainy day above a landscape.<BR/>And through the gentle, unresisting meadows<BR/>one pale path unrolled like a strip of cotton.<BR/><BR/>Down this path they were coming.<BR/><BR/>In front, the slender man in the blue cloak —<BR/>mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.<BR/>In large, greedy, unchewed bites his walk<BR/>devoured the path; his hands hung at his sides,<BR/>tight and heavy, out of the failing folds,<BR/>no longer conscious of the delicate lyre<BR/>which had grown into his left arm, like a slip<BR/>of roses grafted onto an olive tree.<BR/>His senses felt as though they were split in two:<BR/>his sight would race ahead of him like a dog,<BR/>stop, come back, then rushing off again<BR/>would stand, impatient, at the path’s next turn, —<BR/>but his hearing, like an odor, stayed behind.<BR/>Sometimes it seemed to him as though it reached<BR/>bac k to the footsteps of those other two<BR/>who were to follow him, up the long path home.<BR/>But then, once more, it was just his own steps’ echo, <BR/>or the wind inside his cloak, that made the sound.<BR/>He said.to himself, they had to be behind him;<BR/>said it aloud and heard it fade away.<BR/>They had to be behind him, but their steps<BR/>were ominously soft. If only he could<BR/>turn around, just once (but looking back<BR/>would ruin this entire work, so near<BR/>completion), then he could not fail to see them,<BR/>those other two, who followed him so softly:<BR/><BR/>The god of speed and distant messages,<BR/>a traveler’s hood above his shining eyes,<BR/>his slender staff held out in front of him,<BR/>and little wings fluttering at his ankles;<BR/>and on his left arm, barely touching it: she.<BR/><BR/>A woman so loved that from one lyre there came<BR/>more lament than from all lamenting women;<BR/>that a whole world of lament arose, in which<BR/>all nature reappeared: forest and valley,<BR/>road and village, field and stream and animal;<BR/>and that around this lament-world, even as<BR/>around the other earth, a sun revolved<BR/>and a silent star-filled heaven, a lament-<BR/>heaven, with its own, disfigured stars —:<BR/>So greatly was she loved.<BR/><BR/>But now she walked beside the graceful god,<BR/>her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,<BR/>uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.<BR/>She was deep within herself, like a woman heavy<BR/>with child, and did not see the man in front<BR/>or the path ascending steeply into life.<BR/>Deep within herself. Being dead<BR/>filled her beyond fulfillment. Like a fruit<BR/>suffused with its own mystery and sweetness,<BR/>she was filled with her vast death, which was so new,<BR/>she could not understand that it had happened.<BR/><BR/>She had come into a new virginity<BR/>and was untouchable; her sex had closed<BR/>like a young flower at nightfall, and her hands<BR/>had grown so unused to marriage that the god’s<BR/>infinitely gentle touch of guidance<BR/>hurt her, like an undesired kiss.<BR/><BR/>She was no longer that woman with blue eyes<BR/>who once had echoed through the poet’s songs,<BR/>no longer the wide couch’s scent and island,<BR/>and that man’s property no longer.<BR/><BR/>She was already loosened like long hair,<BR/>poured out like fallen rain,<BR/>shared like a limitless supply.<BR/><BR/>She was already root.<BR/><BR/>And when, abruptly,<BR/>the god put out his hand to stop her, saying,<BR/>with sorrow in his voice: He has turned around —,<BR/>she could not understand, and softly answered<BR/>Who?<BR/><BR/> Far away,<BR/>dark before the shining exit-gates,<BR/>someone or other stood, whose features were<BR/>unrecognizable. He stood and saw<BR/>how, on the strip of road among the meadows,<BR/>with a mournful look, the god of messages<BR/>silently turned to follow the small figure<BR/>already walking back along the path,<BR/>her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,<BR/>uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.Peterhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17964745571256580133noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8843657004995977836.post-24995308279812782102009-01-12T03:50:00.000-05:002009-01-12T03:50:00.000-05:00that was awesome. nice page! ;)that was awesome. <BR/>nice page! ;).Mehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01513753279855546530noreply@blogger.com