June: The View to Infinity and Back
|
"Things, which I brought back / with me, look so strange, compared to / theirs—: in their great homeland they are / wild animals, here, they hold their breath / in shame." from The Solitary One, a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke This week, an image called Urnerland, looking East— the Alps. Also: five new translations from the German. |
The guest poems for this week are five new English
translations from the work of the German
language poet,
Rainer
Maria Rilke (from the
Rilke website, a concise hyperlinked biography).
The View to Infinity and Back
While on a cross-country mountain trek, usually
with a little 35 mm camera strapped
to the waistbelt of my pack, I'm always amazed by the fact that such a small
body—
that of the the camera—is capable of 'holding' such a vast amount of
space. Of course,
I realize the camera doesn't actually capture the ambient space at all,—it
merely makes
a representation of a more or less abstract kind. But still, that's how I've
come to think
of it. There is something remarkable about grasping the little black box
firmly between
my hands, setting the lens to its smallest aperture and releasing the shutter.
At that moment,
I sense such a wonderful inrushing of the world around me that, when things
all come
together properly, the flow of time seems to all but come to a stop.
Indeed, one doesn't need a camera to experience this. All you need are a
good pair of
boots, a daypack and, and yes, some mountains. Or a hill will do. For there
are few
experiences more profoundly moving than slowly ascending a steep high-country
trail.
Beginning on the valley floor, or perhaps in a small village, one leaves
the complexity
(and security) of the closed forest behind. Step by step the world becomes
simpler and
simpler, with fewer and fewer plants spaced at ever-wider intervals. At the
same time,
views open up to as far as one can see on the curved surface of the Earth.
It really is as if
one were journeying back in time to some kind of primal essence, not in the
sense of a
Garden of Eden, but rather of a paradise made wholly of the silence of rock
and ice. And
of those endearing little hand-sized plant pioneers, like the gentians or
cushion pinks, that
seem to leap so boldly and colorfully into the stream of life.
The five new translations of poems which I've brought together here as a
sequence, all
taken from Rilke's early work, make a similar journey through space when
read or heard
one after the other. We begin not with climbing a mountain, but with boring
a tunnel
straight through one, all the while uncertain whether we'll make it through
to the
other side:
It's possible, I'm moving through the hard veins
of heavy mountains, like an ore, alone;
I'm so deep inside, I see no end in sight,
and no distance: everything is getting near
and everything near is turning to stone.
What gives the image its power is that it has at once
the ring of truth for both outer and
inner worlds. We enter the actual physical mountain much like they did with
such audacity
and determination in Rilke's day. (The Simplon Tunnel was completed in 1906,
and the
Gotthard was finished around 1889, both marvels of the era which radically
transformed
the relationship between the North and South of Europe.) But we are also
entering the more
subtle inner world of the poet/reader him or herself —the dark, unknown,
formative forces
of our being, and again, without knowing for certain if we'll once again
see the light
of day.
The sequence ends with the view opening up to far as we can see:
I live my life in growing rings
that move out over the things around me.
Perhaps I'll never complete the last,
but that's what I mean to try.
This is a famous piece, well-known mostly in the English
speaking world for its wildly
varying translations and the accompanying literary controversy surrounding
them. In
this context, I would only like to call attention to the marvelous cascade
of images which
emerges from the last stanza, much like a deeply resonant bell ringing out
on all its sides:
I'm circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I've been circling for thousands of years;
and I still don't know: am I a falcon, a storm
or a great song.
In either German or English (or both), this is the kind
of poem, the kind of music,
which seems to me very much at home in the rugged pathless land far above
the trees.
After all, from where the above featured photograph was made, we only need
cross a
pass or two, and then it's all downhill, as the river runs, to the little
village where
Rilke at the end of his life composed both his Elegies and the
great Sonnets to Orpheus.
This would be a trek of but four or five
days, one which, like an image which helps
us see far out over the things of the world, we would very likely never
forget:
|
[Vielleicht, daß ich durch schwere Berge gehe] Vielleicht, daß ich durch schwere Berge gehe in harten Adern, wie ein Erz allein; und bin so tief, daß ich kein Ende sehe und keine Ferne: alles wurde Nähe und alle Nähe wurde Stein. Ich bin ja noch kein Wissender im Wehe,— so macht mich dieses große Dunkel klein; bist Du es aber: mach dich schwer, brich ein: daß deine ganze Hand an mir geschehe und ich an dir mit meinem ganzen Schrein. aus: Das Stundenbuch (1903) |
[It's possible, I'm moving through the hard veins] It's possible, I'm moving through the hard veins of heavy mountains, like an ore, alone; I'm so deep inside, I see no end in sight, and no distance: everything is getting near and everything near is turning to stone. I still can't see very far into suffering,— so this vast darkness makes me small; are you the one: make yourself powerful, break in: so that your whole Hand may happen to me, and to you may happen, my whole cry. from: The Book of Hours |
| listen to It's
possible... German
/ English one recording # |
|
[Du Berg, der blieb, da die Gebirge kamen] Du Berg, der blieb, da die / Gebirge kamen,— Hang ohne Hütten, Gipfel ohne Namen, ewiger Schnee, in dem die Sterne lahmen, und Träger jener Tale der Zyklamen, aus denen aller Duft der Erde geht; du, aller Berge Mund und Minaret (von dem noch nie der Abendruf erschallte): Geh ich in dir jetzt? Bin ich im Basalte wie ein noch ungefundenes Metall? Ehrfürchtig füll ich deine Felsenfalte, und deine Härte fühl ich überall. Oder ist das die Angst, in der ich bin? die tiefe Angst der übergroßen Städte, in die du mich gestellt hast bis ans Kinn? O dass dir einer recht geredet hätte von ihres Wesens Wahn und Abersinn. Du stündest auf, du Sturm aus Anbeginn, und triebest sie wie Hülsen vor dir hin... Und willst du jetzt von mir: so rede recht,— so bin ich nicht mehr Herr in meinem Munde, der nichts als zugehn will wie eine Wunde; und meine Hände halten sich wie Hunde an meinen Seiten, jedem Ruf zu schlecht. Du zwingst mich, Herr, zu einer / fremden Stunde. aus: Das Stundenbuch (1903) |
[You, mountain, who remained
because the mountains came] You, mountain, who remained because / the mountains came,— slope without shelters, peaks without names, eternal snow in which the stars are frozen, and carriers of the valleys of cyclamen out of which the scent of Earth flows; you, lover and source of all mountains. (out of which the evening bell has never sounded): Do I enter you now? Do I lie in basalt like a not yet discovered ore? In awe I fill your folds of rock and everywhere I feel your hardness. Or is it just fear that I have entered? the deep fear of the over-grown cities in which you have placed me up to my chin? O that you had spoken honestly to someone about your being's madness and contradictions. You would arise, you storm from the very beginning, and throw them off like hard shells... And if this is what you want from me: speak directly,— for so I am no longer the master of my own voice, that wants nothing of sounding like a wound; or that my hands should hang like dogs at my side, unworthy of every calling. You force me, Lord, to a / strange hour. from: The Book of Hours |
|
[Mein Leben ist nicht diese steile Stunde] Mein Leben ist nicht diese steile Stunde, darin du mich so eilen siehst. Ich bin ein Baum vor meinem Hintergrunde, ich bin nur einer meiner vielen Munde und jener, welcher sich am frühsten schließt. Ich bin die Ruhe zwischen zweien Tönen, die sich nur schlecht aneinander gewöhnen: denn der Ton Tod will sich erhöhn— Aber im dunklen Intervall versöhnen sich beide zitternd. Und das Lied bleibt schön. aus: Das Stundenbuch (1899) |
[My life is not this vertical
hour] My life is not this vertical hour in which you find me in such haste. I am a tree in front of my own background, I am only but one of my many mouths, and the one which is the first to close. I am the silence between two sounds that only with difficulty grow used to one another: for the tone of Death also wishes to be heard— But in the darkness of the interval they make peace with one another, trembling. And the song remains beautiful. from: The Book of Hours |
| listen to My life is not this vertical
hour... German
/ English one recording # |
|
Der Einsame Wie einer, der auf fremden Meeren fuhr, so bin ich bei den ewig Einheimischen; die vollen Tage stehn auf ihren Tischen, mir aber ist die Ferne voll Figur. In mein Gesicht reicht eine Welt herein, die vielleicht unbewohnt ist wie ein Mond, sie aber lassen kein Gefühl allein, und alle ihre Worte sind bewohnt. Die Dinge, die ich weither mit mir nahm, sehn selten aus, gehalten an das Ihre—: in ihrer großen Heimat sind sie Tiere, hier halten sie den Atem an vor Scham. aus: Das Buch der Bilder |
The Solitary
One Like one who has sailed upon foreign seas, so I am among the eternally at home; full days stand upon their tables, but for me the far away is filled with figure. Into my countenance reaches a world that is perhaps as uninhabited as a moon, they, however, let no feeling be, and all their words are already occupied. Things, which I brought back with me, look so strange, compared to theirs—: in their great homeland they were wild animals, here, they hold their breath in shame. from: The Book of Images |
| listen to The Solitary
One German
/ English one recording # |
|
[Ich lebe mein Leben im wachsenden
Ringen] Ich lebe mein Leben im wachsenden Ringen, die sich über die Dingen ziehen. Ich werde den letzen vielleicht nicht volbringen, aber versuchen will ich ihn. Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm, und ich kreise jahrtausendelang; und ich weiß nocht nicht: bin ich ein Falke, / ein Sturm oder ein großer Gesang. aus: Das Stundenbuch Rainer Maria Rilke |
[I live my life in growing rings] I live my life in growing rings that move out over the things around me. Perhaps I'll never complete the last, but that's what I mean to try. I'm circling around God, around the ancient tower, and I've been circling for thousands of years; and I still don't know: am I a falcon, / a storm or a great song. from: The Book of Hours (all tr. Cliff Crego) |
| listen to I live my
life... German
/ English one recording # |
| view / print
Picture/Poem
Poster: I live my life... (86 K) | or
download
as PDF |
| see also
the Rilke
Posters |
| listen to other recordings in English and German of twelve poems from
The Book of Images at
The Rilke
Download Page
(#
Includes
instructions) |
See other recent additions of new English translations of
Rilke's poetry,
together with
featured photographs at:
(32) June: Every Poem a Prayer
(31) May: The Poetry of Coming and Going
See also a selection of recent Picture/Poem "Rilke
in translation" features at the Rilke
Archive.
|
See also another website by Cliff Crego: The Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke |
a presentation of 80 of the best poems of Rilke in both German and new English translations: biography, links, posters |
|
See also: new |
|
"Straight
roads, Slow rivers, Deep clay." |
A collection of contemporary Dutch poetry in English translation, with commentary and photographs by Cliff Crego |