child in red

She runs a bit, hesitates, stops,
half-turns around...
and, all while dreaming, shakes her head
for or against.

Then she dances a few steps
that she invents and forgets,
no doubt finding out that life
moves on too fast.

It's not so much that she steps out
of the small body enclosing her,
but that all she carries in herself
frolics and ferments.

It's this dress that she'll remember
later in a sweet surrender;
when her whole life is full of risks,
the little red dress will always seem right.

Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.

Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will not build one
anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

Excerpt from "Child in Red" by Rilke

Photo by Nikaa

true before you

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone
Rainer Maria Rilke

Image via We Heart It

Rilke

Rilke's writing is my salve for ill feelings toward humanity. I read The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge years ago, and no book since has been more important to me. I remember how sad and angry I was at the time, sitting alone smoking on the porch of my friend's house that I was sub-letting while he was in Antarctica. I had just finished college, and it seemed like the everything I knew and loved was slowly withdrawing to someplace remote and emotionally far away from me.

Why on earth was my friend in Antarctica, and why was I living in his empty house? How could I possibly survive the terrifying and lonely cube land existence I had entered into since finishing college and finding employment? Each sentence I read of the Notebooks seemed both foreign and as if I had know it my whole life. A salve.

As for Rilke himself - - magnificently peculiar, child-like, unremittingly bewitched - who is all breath and flutter. His is the voice you heard by your bedside when you were a child.