ONE:
I had mentioned the Maine Media conversation with Mark Burrows, translator of Rilke, Poets Padraig O'Tuama and Marie Howe. This is the recorded zoom -- you can fast forward a bit as it takes a minute to get started. In this link to a discussion of Rilke, Marie Howe explains why she is absolutely taken by this poem. https://www.thepoetscorner.org/events/reading-rilke-today-a-conversation?ss_source=sscampaigns&ss_campaign_id=656e09b9ac24aa6f308f9410&ss_email_id=656e3df992fa2218c1d6f24f&ss_campaign_name=Follow+up+to+Reading+Rilke+Today&ss_campaign_sent_date=2023-12-04T21%3A01%3A30Z
at minute 24 she speaks about "refuge from externality." at minute 27 she speaks about discovering "Journal of my other self." Below, left, translation by J.B. Leishman, Hogarth Press, © 1960. On right, transcription of Marie reading the Franz Wright translation (starts at 29.18). The last two lines belong to the Franz Wright translation
Annunciation to Mary by Rainer Maria Rilke Franz Wright translation:
The angel’s entrance (you must realize) It isn't just that an angel entered—
was not what made her frightened. The surprise realize, this is not what startled her.
he gave her by his coming was no more She might have been somebody else
than sun or moon-beam stirring on the floor and the angel some sunlight.
would give another, — she had long since grown For at night, the moon occupying
used to the form that angels wear, descending; itself in her room, so quietly, she
never imaging this coming-down accustomed herself to the form
was hard for them. (O it’s past comprehending, he took, she barely suspected that
how pure she was. Did not one day, a hind this kind of visit is exhausting
that rested in a wood, watchfully staring, to angels.
feel her deep influence, and did it not Oh if we knew how pure she was.
conceive the unicorn, then, without pairing, Didn't a deer catching sight of
the pure beast, beast which light begot, — ) her once in the forest lose himself
No, not to see him enter, but to find so much in looking at her
the youthful angel’s countenance inclined that without coupling, it conceived
so near to her; that when he looked, and she the unicorn the animal of light,
looked up at him, their looks so merged in one the pure animal.
the world outside grew vacant, suddenly, It's not just that he locked in, but that
and all things being seen, endured and done he placed the face of a young man so
were crowded into them: just she and he close to her, his gaze, and the one
eye and its pasture, visions and its view, with which she answered blended
here at the point and at this point alone:- so much suddenly that everything
see, this arouses fear. Such fear both knew. else vanished and what millions saw
built and endured crowded inside of her. Only her and him seeing and seen, eye and whatever is beautiful to the eye. Nowhere
else but right here. This is startling And it startled them both.Then the angel sang his song.
Sonnet of Orpheus #3 transl. by R.Temple transl. by Mark Burrows
The last two lines, I combine both translations.
A god has the power. But tell me, shall a man
Wring the same from a slender lyre?
His senses are awry. And there stand no temples of Apollo
At the crossings of two heart-lines
Song, by Your example, does not concern desire,
Nor pursuit and attainment of its object;
Song is - to be. Trifling for the god; Song is being. Something simple for the god.But when shall we be? And when does He But when will we finally be? and when will he turn
Alter the earth and the stars in our being? the earth and stars towards us?
This is not, my lad, a matter of your passions, though It isn't this, young man, which makes you love, even
Your voice throw open your lips, - learn when the voice forces its mouth open for you. Learn
To forget that you sang out. That is fleeting. To forget that you sang out. It passes away.
True singing is breath of another kind. But to sing, in truth, is a different breath.
A breath that aims nowhere. Pneuma within the god. A zephyr. A breath around nothing, aiming no where. Pneuma within—a blowing in god. A wind. A zephr.
I transcribed the Franz Wright translation of Rilke's "Annunciation" from Marie's reading... with another one available and two versions of one of the Sonnets of Orpheus. This is NOT perfect and I don't have time right now to try to make it so. However, if you are interested hopefully this will whet your appetite to make time to listen to the discussion and form your own ideas.
TWO:
" I would feel less a friend if I did not send this timely reminder.On December 7,1921, James Joyce sent his Linati to a friend who was giving a lecture on the uncompleted Ulysses. It was explanatory outlines of what some say were his 18 chapters ( I find subsections to 24 chapters to match Homer) of wild Irish humour. An old, odd, word comes forth from the darkling depths....Mytheme.Richhard Ellman's, Ulysses on the Liffey, is what makes me start to think of half-blind Stephen Dedalus pretending to be James J.
THREE AND FOUR : sent by email: Judith's poem "O Little Town of Bethlehem" and Bernie's Poem, "Bread"
O little town of Bethlehem can we see thee at all?
When winds blow north and also east th’art covered by a pall
Of ash and smoke and fragments from murderous lust to kill
The echoes of the drones and bombs rebound from hill to hill.
Not silently, not silently, those winds of hate do blow
But with a horrid resonance malevolence do show.
Whatever gods rule over this poor distracted land
Can neither stay nor yet assuage hate’s raging heavy hand.
Thus in thy dark streets shineth no glimmer of a light
But everlasting woe and pain with no relief in sight.
No glint of hope is shown us this winter’s frosty night
Appeals fly up but are they heard?--just gripping, aching fright.
Bethlehem is just 64 miles north and east of the Gaza strip.
I will be eighty-nine years old in January and I am effing fed up
with this nonsense!
bread
this poem is bread
not cake
made of simple things
no cinnamons, caramels or whisked dreams
it is bread
flour, water, salt, yeast
no four days watch and worry
just mixed and set aside
pounded
then a touch of patience
baked sliced eaten
no bread for the ages
it's bread of one day
this day
like a friendly jab on the line
or a beer after work
too ordinary to be humble
too smooth
to accumulate meanings
it asks nothing
it has no voice
it joins us for this meal
any holiness
wholly unnoticed.
-Bernie Shore
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