The Book of Hours
2011-09-17 09:08![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aguuIn World Lit class (ah, I love my course) we were assigned to print out Rilke’s “Book of Hours.” The class ended up with two versions, and luckily I had a classmate with the correct one (I had no internet yesterday, my father wasn’t able to pay the bill on time) and it was beautiful.
After a bit of searching I found out that the poem wasn’t as long as I had expected it to be–some of the lines have their own titles. But we took the lines as one huge poem, and it was…well, I never expected to warm up to this kind of poetry. I don’t write poetry, I don’t think I ever will write good poetry, and well, I can try but I find myself leaning more towards short stories.
Rilke’s words flow wonderfully, and it makes the words feel like I’m drinking from a wellspring of sweet, enlightening water, if there ever is such a thing.
I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough
to make every hour holy.
I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough
just to stand before you like a thing,
dark and shrewd.
I want my will, and I want to be with my will
as it moves towards deed;
and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times,
when something is approaching,
I want to be with those who are wise
or else alone.
I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being,
and never to be too blind or too old
to hold your heavy, swaying image.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere do I want to remain folded,
because where I am bent and folded, there I am lie.
And I want my meaning
true for you.
I want to describe myself
like a painting that I studied
closely for a long, long time,
like a word I finally understood,
like the pitcher of water I use every day ,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that carried me
through the deadliest storm of all.
It’s possible I’m moving through the hard veins
of heavy mountains, like the ore does, alone;
I’m already so deep inside, I see no end in sight,
and no distance: everything is getting near
and everything getting near is turning to stone.
I live my life in growing rings
which move out over the things around me.
Perhaps I’ll never complete the last,
but that’s what I mean to try.
I’m circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I’ve been circling thousands years;
and I still don’t know: am I a falcon, a storm
or a great song.
The last house of this village stands
as alone as if it were the last house in the world.
The road, that the little village cannot hold,
moves on slowly out into the night.
The little village is but a place of transition,
expectant and afraid, between two distances,
a passageway along houses instead of a bridge.
And those who leave the village may wander
a long time, and many may die, perhaps, along the way.
-Rilke
After a bit of searching I found out that the poem wasn’t as long as I had expected it to be–some of the lines have their own titles. But we took the lines as one huge poem, and it was…well, I never expected to warm up to this kind of poetry. I don’t write poetry, I don’t think I ever will write good poetry, and well, I can try but I find myself leaning more towards short stories.
Rilke’s words flow wonderfully, and it makes the words feel like I’m drinking from a wellspring of sweet, enlightening water, if there ever is such a thing.
I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough
to make every hour holy.
I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough
just to stand before you like a thing,
dark and shrewd.
I want my will, and I want to be with my will
as it moves towards deed;
and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times,
when something is approaching,
I want to be with those who are wise
or else alone.
I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being,
and never to be too blind or too old
to hold your heavy, swaying image.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere do I want to remain folded,
because where I am bent and folded, there I am lie.
And I want my meaning
true for you.
I want to describe myself
like a painting that I studied
closely for a long, long time,
like a word I finally understood,
like the pitcher of water I use every day ,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that carried me
through the deadliest storm of all.
It’s possible I’m moving through the hard veins
of heavy mountains, like the ore does, alone;
I’m already so deep inside, I see no end in sight,
and no distance: everything is getting near
and everything getting near is turning to stone.
I live my life in growing rings
which move out over the things around me.
Perhaps I’ll never complete the last,
but that’s what I mean to try.
I’m circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I’ve been circling thousands years;
and I still don’t know: am I a falcon, a storm
or a great song.
The last house of this village stands
as alone as if it were the last house in the world.
The road, that the little village cannot hold,
moves on slowly out into the night.
The little village is but a place of transition,
expectant and afraid, between two distances,
a passageway along houses instead of a bridge.
And those who leave the village may wander
a long time, and many may die, perhaps, along the way.
-Rilke
