Duino Elegies 1 and 2 – Rainer Maria Rilke

Shambhala Publications, Inc., 1992.
Translated by Stephen MitchellThe First Elegy
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels’ hierarchies?
I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,
Every angel is terrifying.
And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing.
Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?
Not angels, not humans, and already the knowing animals are aware
Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside, which every day we can take into our vision;
Oh and night: there is night, when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at our faces.
Whom would it not remain for–that longed-after, mildly disillusioning presence,
Is it any less difficult for lovers?
But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate.
Don’t you know yet?
Fling the emptiness out of your arms into the spaces we breathe;
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,
All this was mission. But could you accomplish it?
Weren’t you always distracted by expectation, as if every event announced a beloved?
(Where can you find a place to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you
But when you feel longing, sing of women in love; for their famous passion is still not immortal.
Sing of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them, almost)
Begin again and again the never-attainable praising; remember: the hero lives on;
But Nature, spent and exhausted, takes lovers back into herself,
Have you imagined Gaspara Stampa intensely enough
Shouldn’t this most ancient of sufferings finally grow more fruitful for us?
Isn’t it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved and,
For there is no place where we can remain.
Voices. Voices. Listen, my heart, as only saints have listened:
Not that you could endure God’s voice–far from it.
But listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms itself out of silence.
It is murmuring toward you now from those who died young.
Didn’t their fate, whenever you stepped into a church in Naples or Rome,
Or high up, some eulogy entrusted you with a mission,
What they want of me is that I gently remove the appearance of injustice about their death–
Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,
Strange to no longer desire one’s desires.
Strange to see meanings that clung together once, floating away in every direction.
And being dead is hard work and full of retrieval before one can gradually feel a trace of eternity.
Though the living are wrong to believe in the too-sharp distinctions which
Angels (they say) don’t know whether it is the living they are moving among, or the dead.
The eternal torrent whirls all ages along in it, through both realms forever,
In the end, those who were carried off early no longer need us:
But we, who do need such great mysteries,
Is the legend meaningless that tells how, in the lament for Linus,
The Second Elegy
Every angel is terrifying. And yet, alas, I invoke you,
Where are the days of Tobias, when one of you, veiling his radiance,
But if the archangel now, perilous, from behind the stars took even one step down toward us:
Who are you?
Early successes, Creation’s pampered favorites,
But we, when moved by deep feeling, evaporate; we breathe ourselves out and away;
Though someone may tell us: “Yes, you’ve entered my bloodstream, the room,
And those who are beautiful, oh who can retain them?
Appearance ceaselessly rises in their face, and is gone.
Like dew from the morning grass, what is ours floats into the air, like steam from a dish of hot food.
O smile, where are you going?
O upturned glance: new warm receding wave on the sea of the heart . . .
Does the infinite space we dissolve into, taste of us then?
Do the angels really reabsorb only the radiance that streamed out from themselves,
Are we mixed in with their features even as slightly as that vague look
They do not notice it (how could they notice) in their swirling return to themselves.
Lovers, if they knew how, might utter strange, marvelous words in the night air.
For it seems that everything hides us.
Look: trees do exist; the houses that we live in still stand.
We alone fly past all things, as fugitive as the wind.
And all things conspire to keep silent about us, half out of shame perhaps, half as unutterable hope.Lovers, gratified in each other, I am asking you about us.
You hold each other. Where is your proof?
Look, sometimes I find that my hands have become aware of each other,
That gives me a slight sensation.
But who would dare to exist, just for that?
You, though, who in the other’s passion grow until, overwhelmed, he begs you:
“No more . . . “; you who beneath his hands swell with abundance,
I am asking you about us.
I know, you touch so blissfully because the caress preserves,
So you promise eternity, almost, from the embrace.
And yet, when you have survived the terror of the first glances,
When you lift yourselves up to each other’s mouth and your lips join,
Weren’t you astonished by the caution of human gestures on Attic gravestones?
Wasn’t love and departure placed so gently on shoulders
Remember the hands, how weightlessly they rest, though there is power in the torsos.
These self-mastered figures know: “We can go this far,
But that is the gods’ affair.”
If only we too could discover a pure, contained, human place,
Four our own heart always exceeds us, as theirs did.
And we can no longer follow it,
WH said
I love the Duino Elegies, especially (I think) number 9, No More Wooing.
Thanks for posting these – you seem to be a big Rilke fan. Yes?
Peace,
Will
Nicole said
will, Yes! :)definitely. I will look at No More Wooing again… thanks for the reminder.
Samme, I have a little copy of it myself and know what you mean – I was so happy when I reconnected with the Elegies by buying that.
Marmalade said
I read through it, but its a lot to take in. I’d need to read it multiple times to really get a sense of it. I’ll return to it again later and hopefully I’ll be able to give more of a response. But for now these lines near the beginning stood out to me.
Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?
Not angels, not humans, and already the knowing animals are aware
that we are not really at home in our interpreted world.
Nicole said
yes, i stopped at those a lot when i first read this. i know it’s hard to get into, dear Ben but it’s really worth it. i guess you don’t usually read poetry?
Marmalade said
I don’t usually read poetry. I have read various poets off and on over the years, but I’ve never focused much on it. I certainly have never delved into a single poet the way I have with the writings of someone like PKD. I did date a poet for a while and I wrote bad poetry in highschool… does that count? 🙂
You’ve got me interested in Rilke, but the poet I’ve for years been wanting to get into is Blake.
Nicole said
Blake is wonderful. Much clearer than Rilke too. Yes, poetry can be really challenging if you’re not immersed in the genre.
Marmalade said
If Blake is much clearer, what is it about Rilke that you enjoy so much?
Who are some of your other favorite poets?
I did get some sense of what goes into poetry when I dated a poet. She was very serious about her work, and had moved to this town for the writer’s workshop. My appreciation for poetry has increased over the years. Partly my problem with poetry is that I have no knack for it. 🙂
Nicole said
oh i love obscurity in poets :):) i’m very perverse in that way and others.
that’s interesting about you dating a poet. i enjoy writing poetry to express my emotions but i’m just a dabbler and no true poet.
Marmalade said
The First Elegy
“Whom would it not remain for–that longed-after, mildly disillusioning presence,
which the solitary heart so painfully meets.
Is it any less difficult for lovers?
But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate.”
Once again, human love is not enough… and can even be problematic, a way of hiding some truth.
“Sing of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them, almost)
who could love so much more purely than those who were gratified.”
Ah, but failed human love that transforms into longing is a whole other matter.
“Isn’t it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved”
Love can only be transformed into longing when we free ourselves from the object of love.
“forgetting it as easily as a child abandons a broken toy.”
A seeming reference to the the failure of the toy that represents human love.
“Angels (they say) don’t know whether it is the living they are moving among, or the dead.”
A seeming reference to the transcenent nature of puppets. Angels don’t discern between a human and a puppet, the living and the dead. This brings up the question of what moves us. If we are moved from above rather than from within, then are we too puppets of the divine?
Nicole said
The First Elegy
“Once again, human love is not enough… and can even be problematic, a way of hiding some truth.”
especially the truth that we are each always a solitude, so even in love, it’s just two solitudes greeting each other, as he says in the Letters to a Young Poet.
“Ah, but failed human love that transforms into longing is a whole other matter.”
Not just longing – lovers have longing, and worse in a way. Those who love purely one who is unattainable have transformed longing into emptiness… (which) the birds will feel … with more passionate flying .
and mission. But could you accomplish it? only if you give up the search for comfort in a lover’s arms, apparently…
it is that fierce example of soaring,
objectless love… this most ancient of sufferings (which can) finally grow more fruitful for us… Isn’t it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved and,
quivering, endured: as the arrow endures the bowstring’s tension,so that gathered in the snap of release it can be more than itself.
For there is no place where we can remain.
“A seeming reference to the the failure of the toy that represents human love.”
Not just human love but all of life… just before the broken toy reference it says
it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,
to give up customs one barely had time to learn,
not to see roses and other promising Things in terms of a human future;
no longer to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands;
to leave even one’s own first name behind,
and later
those who were carried off early no longer need us:
they are weaned from earth’s sorrows and joys,
as gently as children outgrow the soft breasts of their mothers.
“A seeming reference to the transcenent nature of puppets. Angels don’t discern between a human and a puppet, the living and the dead. This brings up the question of what moves us. If we are moved from above rather than from within, then are we too puppets of the divine?”
But listen what he says about angels (which to Rilke, not your average theist, is a highly symbolic figure, not in the usual sense of winged creatures)
even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart:
I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.
Every angel is terrifying…
if the archangel now, perilous, from behind the stars took even one step down toward us:
our own heart, beating higher and higher, would beat us to death.
Who are you?
(and from the second elegy) Early successes, Creation’s pampered favorites,
mountain-ranges, peaks growing red in the dawn of all beginning,–
pollen of the flowering godhead, joints of pure light,
corridors, stairways, thrones, space formed from essence,
shields made of ecstasy, storms of emotion whirled into rapture, and suddenly alone:
mirrors, which scoop up the beauty that has streamed from their face
and gather it back, into themselves, entire.
or this
Voices. Voices. Listen, my heart, as only saints have listened:
until the gigantic call lifted them off the ground;
yet they kept on, impossibly, kneeling and didn’t notice at all: so complete was their listening.
so, not mere puppets but filling with being and power…
Samme said
Thank you Nicole for posting this. I would like to get a new copy of the book now. I had it before but now I feel it is time to bring it back to my collections.
Samme