Poem of the day
You Who Never Arrived
You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me-- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected
turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods-
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.
You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house--, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,
gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?
perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...
--Rainer Maria Rilke
You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me-- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected
turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods-
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.
You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house--, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,
gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?
perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...
--Rainer Maria Rilke
posted by Wonderdog | 4:28 PM | Permalink
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3 comments
3 Comments:
Can someone explain this to the poetry challenged? Is it someone mourning their aborted or miscarried baby?
I too thought that at first, CIV, but after more ponderous thought I have concluded that it is a Robert Byrd Poem. . . "An Ode to his Brain". Think about it. . "you. .who never arrived"
Ah, if it were only applicable to Stewdog my life would be much simpler.
To answer your question, CIV, the poem is about the sadness and beauty of longing. I believe the author is referring, personally, to the elusive love of his life, i.e. a soulmate. However, as with most great poetry, we can bring whatever experiences we have to bear upon the sentiment of the author and substitute them so that it becomes personal for us as well.
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