Listen, love, I lift my hands— listen: there's a rustling . . . What gesture of those all alone might not be eavesdropped on by many things? Listen, love, I close my eyes, and even that makes sounds to reach you. Listen, love, I open them . . . . . . but why are you not here?
The imprint of my smallest motion remains visible in the silken silence; indestructibly the least excitement is stamped into the distance's taut curtain. On my breathing the stars rise and set. At my lips fragrances come to drink, and I recognize the wrists of distant angels. Only her of whom I think: You I cannot see.
— from The Book of Images, translated by Edward Snow
A beautiful and subtle Rilke poem, linking the universe and beyond through synesthesia. Almost silent, almost motionless, but not quite — in the very rustlings and minute, reverberating motions lies the meaning.
the joining of thing with shadow just about destroys me in this photograph! and so i want to stay here, with your photograph, and leave rilke to have the floor another day.
A beautiful and subtle Rilke poem, linking the universe and beyond through synesthesia. Almost silent, almost motionless, but not quite — in the very rustlings and minute, reverberating motions lies the meaning.
ReplyDeleteI agree, Robert.
ReplyDeleteThe line At my lips fragrances come to drink and the wrists / of distant angels blow me away.
the joining of thing with shadow just about destroys me in this photograph! and so i want to stay here, with your photograph, and leave rilke to have the floor another day.
ReplyDeletexo
erin
I agree with Erin...this is for me one of your best images, Sister!
ReplyDelete