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Rilke: Poems
The Everyman's Library Pocket Poets hardcover series is popular for its compact size and reasonable price which does not compromise content. Poems: Rilke contains poems from The Book of Images; New Poems; Requiem for a Friend; Poems, 1906-1926; French Poems; The Life of Mary; Sonnets to Orpheus; The Duino Elegies; Letters to a Young Poet; and an index of first lines.
256 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1918
37 people are currently reading
747 people want to read
About the author
Rainer Maria Rilke
1,807 books6,964 followersA mystic lyricism and precise imagery often marked verse of German poet Rainer Maria Rilke, whose collections profoundly influenced 20th-century German literature and include
The Book of Hours
(1905) and
The Duino Elegies
(1923).
People consider him of the greatest 20th century users of the language.
His haunting images tend to focus on the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety — themes that tend to position him as a transitional figure between the traditional and the modernist poets.
His two most famous sequences include the Sonnets to Orpheus , and his most famous prose works include the Letters to a Young Poet and the semi-autobiographical The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge .
He also wrote more than four hundred poems in French, dedicated to the canton of Valais in Switzerland, his homeland of choice.
People consider him of the greatest 20th century users of the language.
His haunting images tend to focus on the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety — themes that tend to position him as a transitional figure between the traditional and the modernist poets.
His two most famous sequences include the Sonnets to Orpheus , and his most famous prose works include the Letters to a Young Poet and the semi-autobiographical The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge .
He also wrote more than four hundred poems in French, dedicated to the canton of Valais in Switzerland, his homeland of choice.
Ratings & Reviews
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 30 reviews
January 18, 2018
Outstanding. This book is like medecine for my apathy. It humbled me, reminded me that in spite of the pointlessness that runs like a thread through our lives, in spite of all the anxiousness, the insecurities, the feeling of inferiority, of puniness, there is so much to live for, if only you can (dare to) see it. I love this so much.
July 3, 2009
I. Should. Not. Write. Again. Ever.
BUT YOU SHOULD READ THIS (especially, if, like me, you first read Rilke as a lovesick teenager writing horrible poetry and liked his work okay, and didn't think about him again for years)...
BUT YOU SHOULD READ THIS (especially, if, like me, you first read Rilke as a lovesick teenager writing horrible poetry and liked his work okay, and didn't think about him again for years)...
October 3, 2017
Pesme izvan mojih trenutnih interpretativnih mogućnosti.
December 13, 2011
My rating reflects my view of the relative merit of the translations. Frankly, I don't care for J.B. Leishman's translations, although they're better than some of the bizarre renderings others have put out.
September 10, 2022
How could I POSSIBLY dare to rate and review Rilke. How does one even begin to describe the Rilke experience without alluding to the fact that he understands beauty in a way that transcends explanation. Do I NEED to put into words the whys and wherefores of the situation!! Is it not enough to lie face down on the ground wailing, thinking thoughts and feeling utterly undone??
October 18, 2022
sonety do Orfeusza to jest majstersztyk
October 1, 2019
"If your everyday life seems poor to you, do not accuse it; accuse yourself, tell your self you are not poet enough to summon up its riches; since for the creator there is no poverty and no poor or unimportant place" (from Letters to a Young Poet, 217)
****
It feels a little odd bothering to review this volume when Rilke himself has written "read as few aesthetic-critical things as possible - they are either partisan opinions, become hardened and meaningless in their lifeless petrification, or else they are a skilful play upon words, in which one view is uppermost today and its opposite tomorrow" (222). But I suppose I'll forgive myself in advance, for at least I agree with the followup to that quote, "works of art are of an infinite solitariness, and nothing is less likely to bring us near to them than criticism. Only love can apprehend and hold them, and can be just towards them," and anyway I'm never really prone to genuine attempts at critical analysis in my spare time (having graduated uni years ago), except in the case of "lower" art-forms, of which Rilke's work is not.
****
From The Book of Images
"And one to stand by me and blow us space
with the brass trumpet that can blaze and blare,
blowing a black solitude through which we tear
like dreams that speed too fast to leave a trace."
("The Boy," 15)
"And, having still to spare, to share some feeling
with the small sinking face caught sight of there: -
Childhood! Winged likenesses half-guessed at, wheeling,
oh, where, oh, where?"
("Childhood," 17)
----
From New Poems
"Those who had seen him living saw no trace
of his deep unity with all that passes;
for these, these valleys here, these meadow-grasses,
these streams of running water, were his face."
("The Poet's Death," 26)
"Even now she was no longer that blonde woman
who'd sometimes echoed in the poet's poems,
no longer the broad couch's scent and island,
nor yonder man's possession any longer.
"She was already loosened like long hair,
and given far and wide like fallen rain,
and dealt out like a manifold supply.
"She was already root.
And when, abruptly,
the god had halted her and, with an anguished
outcry, outspoke the words: He has turned round! -
she took in nothing, and said softly: Who?"
("Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes," 30)
If I was less lazy, I'd just type the full poem here, as it is certainly among my favorites.
"[...] although
he still keeps pushing so persistently
his face into it, almost with beseeching,
so close to comprehension, nearly reaching,
and yet renouncing: for he wouldn't be."
("The Dog," 36)
"How I have felt that thing that's called 'to part',
and feel it still: a dark, invincible,
cruel something by which what was joined so well
is once more shown, held out, and torn apart."
("Parting," 37)
----
From Requiem
[This is going to be a pain in the dick because I loved this entire thing, so I'm forced to take small pieces out of context from the whole.]
"That we were frightened when you died, or, rather,
that your strong death made a dark interruption,
tearing the till-then from the ever-since:
that is our business: to set that in order
will be the work that everything provides us.
But that you too were frightened, even now
are frightened, now, when fright has lost its meaning,
that you are losing some of your eternity,
even a little, to step in here, friend, here,
where nothing yet exists"
("For a Friend," 43)
"Come; we'll remain a little while in silence.
Look at this rose, here on my writing-desk:
is not the light around it just as timid
as that round you? It too should not be here.
It ought to have remained or passed away
out in the garden there, unmixed with me -
it stays, unconscious of my consciousness."
(46 - 47)
"Don't be afraid now if I comprehend:
it's rising in me - oh, I must, I must,
even if it kills me, I must comprehend.
Comprehend, that you're here. I comprehend.
Just as a blind man comprehends a thing,
I feel your fate although I cannot name it."
(47)
"But I accuse:
not him who thus withdrew you from yourself
(I can't distinguish him, he's like them all),
but in him I accuse all: accuse man.
If somewhere deep within me rises up
a having-once-been-child I don't yet know,
perhaps the purest childness of my childhood:
I will not know it."
(50)
"For this is guilt, if anything be guilt,
not to enlarge the freedom of a love
with all the freedom in one's own possession.
All we can offer where we love is this:
to loose each other; for to hold each other
comes easy to us and requires no learning."
(51)
"Hear me and help me. Look, without knowing when,
we keep on slipping backwards from our progress
into some unintended thing, and there
we get ourselves involved as in a dream,
and there at last we die without awakening.
No one's got further. Anyone who's lifted
the level of his blood to some long work
may find he's holding it aloft no longer
and that it's worthlessly obeying its weight.
For somewhere there's an old hostility
between our human life and greatest work.
May I see into it and it say: help me!
Do not return. If you can bear it, stay
dead with the dead. The dead are occupied.
But help me, as you may without distraction,
as the most distant sometimes helps: in me."
(52 - 53)
----
From Poems 1906 to 1926
"[...]for nothing less
than what, though never hidden, none could see,
for the world-secret, so essentially
secret, it baffles all secretiveness!
"All books keep turning past it: no one ever
read in a book a thing so manifest
(I want a word - how can it be expressed?):
the Immeasurable submitted to the measure
"of sacrifice. - Look there, oh, look: what's keeping,
that has not learnt to give itself away?
All things are passing. Help them on their way.
And then your life will not be merely seeping
"out through some crack. Remain your whole life long
the conscious giver."
("From the Poems of Count C.W.," 59)
"[...] I can still my
thirst by letting all that pristine freshness
ripple from my wrists through all my body.
Drinking seems to me too much, too open:
this more patient, more expectant gesture
fills my consciousness with sparkling water.
"So, if you came, I could be contented
just to let my hands rest very lightly
either on your shoulder's youthful rounding
or upon your breasts' responsive pressure."
("On the Sunny Road," 64)
"Lingering, even with intimate things,
is not vouchsafed us; the spirit plunges
from filled to suddenly fillable images; lakes
exist in eternity. Fall is here
fittest. Cascading down out of compassed feeling
into surmised beyond.
[...]
"Why, after such an eternal life, do we still
mistrust the terrestrial? Instead of earnestly learning
from fleeting Appearance the feelings
for, oh, what affections, in space?"
("To Hölderlin," 66 - 67)
"Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps:
stillness of pictures. You speech, where speeches
end. You time,
vertically poised on the courses of vanishing hearts.
"Feelings for what? Oh, you transformation
of feelings into... audible landscape!
You stranger: Music. Space that's outgrown us,
heart-space. Innermost us, transcendently
surging away from us, - holiest parting,
where what is within surrounds us
as practised horizon, as other
side of the air,
pure,
gigantic,
no longer lived in."
("To Music," 68, quoted in full!)
----
From French Poems
"All my goodbyes are said. Many separations
slowly shaped me since my infancy.
But I come back again and I begin again;
this fresh return releases my attention.
"What's left for me is to replenish it,
and my joy, forever unrepentant
for having loved the things resembling
these absences that make us act."
(presumably untitled poem, 85)
"My whole life is mine, but whoever says so
will deprive me, for it is infinite.
The ripple of water, the shade of the sky
are mine; it is still the same, my life.
"No desire opens me: I am full,
I never close myself with refusal -
in the rhythm of my daily soul
I do not desire - I am moved;
"by being moved I exert my empire,
making the dreams of night real:
into my body at the bottom of the water
I attract the beyonds of mirrors...."
("Water Lily," 90, quoted in full)
"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."
("Child in Red," 96)
"The future: time's excuse
to frighten us; too vast
a project, too large a morsel
for the heart's mouth.
"Future, who won't wait for you?
Everyone is going there.
It suffices you to deepen
the absence that we are."
("The Future," 99, quoted in full)
"Take me by the hand;
it's so easy for you, Angel,
for you are the road
even while being immobile.
"You see, I'm scared no one
here will look for me again;
I couldn't make use of
whatever was given,
"so they abandoned me.
At first the solitude
charmed me like a prelude,
but so much music wounded me."
("Music," 101, quoted in full)
"Around them, these depths which soon
ought to hold the numberless worlds, blanch.
And a friend who doesn't watch herself says: Nice,
and closes herself on the unutterable."
("Clouds," 102)
----
From The Duino Elegies
"For Beauty's nothing
but beginning of Terror we're still just able to bear,
and why we adore it so is because it serenely
disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible."
("The First Elegy," 165)
"He, so new, so timorous, how he got tangled
in ever-encroaching creepers of inner event,
twisted to primitive patterns, to throttling growths, to bestial
preying forms! How we gave himself up to it! Loved.
Loved his interior world, his interior jungle,
that primal forest within, on whose mute overthrowness,
light-green, his heart stood. Loved."
("The Third Elegy," 176)
"And you, am I not right, -
you that would love me for that small beginning
of love for you I always turned away from,
because the space within your faces changed,
even while I loved i, into cosmic space
where you no longer were..."
("The Fourth Elegy," 180 - 181)
"Angel, even if I were, you'd never come! For my call
is always full of outgoing; against such a powerful
current you cannot advance. Like an outstretched
arm is my call. And its hand, for some grasping,
skywardly opened, remains before you
as opened so wide but for warding
and warning, Inapprehensible."
("The Seventh Elegy," 195)
"And we, spectators always, everywhere,
looking at, never out of, everything!
It fills us. We arrange it. It collapses.
We re-arrange it, and collapse ourselves."
("The Eighth Elegy," 198)
"Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future
are growing less...... Supernumerous existence
wells up in my heart."
("The Ninth Elegy," 203)
"And yet, were they waking a symbol within us, the endlessly dead,
look, they'd be pointing, perhaps, to the catkins, hanging
from empty hazels, or else
to the rain downfalling on dark soil-bed in early Spring. -
And we, who think of ascending
happiness, then would feel
the emotion that almost startles
when happiness falls."
("The Tenth Elegy," 209)
----
From Letters to a Young Poet
"Irony: Do not let yourself be governed by it, especially not in unproductive moments. In productive ones try to make use of it as one more means of seizing life. Used purely, it is itself pure, and one need not be ashamed of it; and when you feel too familiar with it, when you fear the growing intimacy with it, then turn towards great and serious subjects, before which it becomes small and helpless. [...] For under the influence of serious things [irony] will either fall away from you (if it is something non-essential), or else it will (if it belongs to you innately) with gathering strength become a serious tool and be ranked among the means by which you will have to form your art" (219 - 220).
"If you hold to Nature, to the simplicity that is in her, to the small detail that scarcely one man sees, which can so unexpectedly grow into something great and boundless; if you have this love for insignificant things and seek, simply as one who serves, to win the confidence of what seems to be poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more conciliatory, not perhaps in the understanding, which lags wondering behind, but in your innermost consciousness, wakefulness and knowing" (224 - 225).
"But everything that once perhaps will be possible to many, the solitary man can already prepare for and build now with his hands, which go less astray. Therefore, dear Sir, love your solitude and bear the pain which it has caused you with fair-sounding lament. [...] Be glad of your growing, into which you can take no one else with you, and be good to those that remain behind, and be self-possessed and quiet with them and do not torment them with your doubts and do not frighten them with your confidence or joy, which they could not comprehend. Seek some unpretending and honest communication with them, which you are under no necessity to alter when you yourself become more and more different; love life in a strange guise in them, and make allowances for those ageing people who fear the solitude in which you trust" (228 - 229).
"Many young people, to be sure, who love falsely, that is simply surrendering, letting solitude go (the average person will always persist in that way), feel the oppression of failure and want to make the situation in which they find themselves full of vitality and fruitful in their own personal fashion -" (232).
"For if we think of this existence of the individual as a larger or smaller room, it becomes clear that most people get to know only one corner of their room, a window seat, a strip of floor which they pace up and down. In that way they have a certain security. And yet how much more human is that insecurity, so fraught with danger, which compels the prisoners in Poe's Tales to grope for the shapes of their ghastly prisons and not to remain unaware of the unspeakable horrors of their dwelling. But we are not prisoners" (240).
"Do not observe yourself too closely. Do not draw too rapid conclusions from what happens to you; let it simply happen to you. Otherwise you will too easily reach the point of looking reproachfully (that is mortally) at your past, which is naturally concerned with everything that is now occurring to you" (242).
"In everything real one is a closer, nearer neighbor to it than in the unreal semi-artistic professions which, while they make show of a relatedness to art, in practice deny and attack the existence of all art, as for instance the whole of journalism does, and almost all criticism and three-quarters of what calls itself and likes to be called literature" (246).
****
It feels a little odd bothering to review this volume when Rilke himself has written "read as few aesthetic-critical things as possible - they are either partisan opinions, become hardened and meaningless in their lifeless petrification, or else they are a skilful play upon words, in which one view is uppermost today and its opposite tomorrow" (222). But I suppose I'll forgive myself in advance, for at least I agree with the followup to that quote, "works of art are of an infinite solitariness, and nothing is less likely to bring us near to them than criticism. Only love can apprehend and hold them, and can be just towards them," and anyway I'm never really prone to genuine attempts at critical analysis in my spare time (having graduated uni years ago), except in the case of "lower" art-forms, of which Rilke's work is not.
****
From The Book of Images
"And one to stand by me and blow us space
with the brass trumpet that can blaze and blare,
blowing a black solitude through which we tear
like dreams that speed too fast to leave a trace."
("The Boy," 15)
"And, having still to spare, to share some feeling
with the small sinking face caught sight of there: -
Childhood! Winged likenesses half-guessed at, wheeling,
oh, where, oh, where?"
("Childhood," 17)
----
From New Poems
"Those who had seen him living saw no trace
of his deep unity with all that passes;
for these, these valleys here, these meadow-grasses,
these streams of running water, were his face."
("The Poet's Death," 26)
"Even now she was no longer that blonde woman
who'd sometimes echoed in the poet's poems,
no longer the broad couch's scent and island,
nor yonder man's possession any longer.
"She was already loosened like long hair,
and given far and wide like fallen rain,
and dealt out like a manifold supply.
"She was already root.
And when, abruptly,
the god had halted her and, with an anguished
outcry, outspoke the words: He has turned round! -
she took in nothing, and said softly: Who?"
("Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes," 30)
If I was less lazy, I'd just type the full poem here, as it is certainly among my favorites.
"[...] although
he still keeps pushing so persistently
his face into it, almost with beseeching,
so close to comprehension, nearly reaching,
and yet renouncing: for he wouldn't be."
("The Dog," 36)
"How I have felt that thing that's called 'to part',
and feel it still: a dark, invincible,
cruel something by which what was joined so well
is once more shown, held out, and torn apart."
("Parting," 37)
----
From Requiem
[This is going to be a pain in the dick because I loved this entire thing, so I'm forced to take small pieces out of context from the whole.]
"That we were frightened when you died, or, rather,
that your strong death made a dark interruption,
tearing the till-then from the ever-since:
that is our business: to set that in order
will be the work that everything provides us.
But that you too were frightened, even now
are frightened, now, when fright has lost its meaning,
that you are losing some of your eternity,
even a little, to step in here, friend, here,
where nothing yet exists"
("For a Friend," 43)
"Come; we'll remain a little while in silence.
Look at this rose, here on my writing-desk:
is not the light around it just as timid
as that round you? It too should not be here.
It ought to have remained or passed away
out in the garden there, unmixed with me -
it stays, unconscious of my consciousness."
(46 - 47)
"Don't be afraid now if I comprehend:
it's rising in me - oh, I must, I must,
even if it kills me, I must comprehend.
Comprehend, that you're here. I comprehend.
Just as a blind man comprehends a thing,
I feel your fate although I cannot name it."
(47)
"But I accuse:
not him who thus withdrew you from yourself
(I can't distinguish him, he's like them all),
but in him I accuse all: accuse man.
If somewhere deep within me rises up
a having-once-been-child I don't yet know,
perhaps the purest childness of my childhood:
I will not know it."
(50)
"For this is guilt, if anything be guilt,
not to enlarge the freedom of a love
with all the freedom in one's own possession.
All we can offer where we love is this:
to loose each other; for to hold each other
comes easy to us and requires no learning."
(51)
"Hear me and help me. Look, without knowing when,
we keep on slipping backwards from our progress
into some unintended thing, and there
we get ourselves involved as in a dream,
and there at last we die without awakening.
No one's got further. Anyone who's lifted
the level of his blood to some long work
may find he's holding it aloft no longer
and that it's worthlessly obeying its weight.
For somewhere there's an old hostility
between our human life and greatest work.
May I see into it and it say: help me!
Do not return. If you can bear it, stay
dead with the dead. The dead are occupied.
But help me, as you may without distraction,
as the most distant sometimes helps: in me."
(52 - 53)
----
From Poems 1906 to 1926
"[...]for nothing less
than what, though never hidden, none could see,
for the world-secret, so essentially
secret, it baffles all secretiveness!
"All books keep turning past it: no one ever
read in a book a thing so manifest
(I want a word - how can it be expressed?):
the Immeasurable submitted to the measure
"of sacrifice. - Look there, oh, look: what's keeping,
that has not learnt to give itself away?
All things are passing. Help them on their way.
And then your life will not be merely seeping
"out through some crack. Remain your whole life long
the conscious giver."
("From the Poems of Count C.W.," 59)
"[...] I can still my
thirst by letting all that pristine freshness
ripple from my wrists through all my body.
Drinking seems to me too much, too open:
this more patient, more expectant gesture
fills my consciousness with sparkling water.
"So, if you came, I could be contented
just to let my hands rest very lightly
either on your shoulder's youthful rounding
or upon your breasts' responsive pressure."
("On the Sunny Road," 64)
"Lingering, even with intimate things,
is not vouchsafed us; the spirit plunges
from filled to suddenly fillable images; lakes
exist in eternity. Fall is here
fittest. Cascading down out of compassed feeling
into surmised beyond.
[...]
"Why, after such an eternal life, do we still
mistrust the terrestrial? Instead of earnestly learning
from fleeting Appearance the feelings
for, oh, what affections, in space?"
("To Hölderlin," 66 - 67)
"Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps:
stillness of pictures. You speech, where speeches
end. You time,
vertically poised on the courses of vanishing hearts.
"Feelings for what? Oh, you transformation
of feelings into... audible landscape!
You stranger: Music. Space that's outgrown us,
heart-space. Innermost us, transcendently
surging away from us, - holiest parting,
where what is within surrounds us
as practised horizon, as other
side of the air,
pure,
gigantic,
no longer lived in."
("To Music," 68, quoted in full!)
----
From French Poems
"All my goodbyes are said. Many separations
slowly shaped me since my infancy.
But I come back again and I begin again;
this fresh return releases my attention.
"What's left for me is to replenish it,
and my joy, forever unrepentant
for having loved the things resembling
these absences that make us act."
(presumably untitled poem, 85)
"My whole life is mine, but whoever says so
will deprive me, for it is infinite.
The ripple of water, the shade of the sky
are mine; it is still the same, my life.
"No desire opens me: I am full,
I never close myself with refusal -
in the rhythm of my daily soul
I do not desire - I am moved;
"by being moved I exert my empire,
making the dreams of night real:
into my body at the bottom of the water
I attract the beyonds of mirrors...."
("Water Lily," 90, quoted in full)
"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."
("Child in Red," 96)
"The future: time's excuse
to frighten us; too vast
a project, too large a morsel
for the heart's mouth.
"Future, who won't wait for you?
Everyone is going there.
It suffices you to deepen
the absence that we are."
("The Future," 99, quoted in full)
"Take me by the hand;
it's so easy for you, Angel,
for you are the road
even while being immobile.
"You see, I'm scared no one
here will look for me again;
I couldn't make use of
whatever was given,
"so they abandoned me.
At first the solitude
charmed me like a prelude,
but so much music wounded me."
("Music," 101, quoted in full)
"Around them, these depths which soon
ought to hold the numberless worlds, blanch.
And a friend who doesn't watch herself says: Nice,
and closes herself on the unutterable."
("Clouds," 102)
----
From The Duino Elegies
"For Beauty's nothing
but beginning of Terror we're still just able to bear,
and why we adore it so is because it serenely
disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible."
("The First Elegy," 165)
"He, so new, so timorous, how he got tangled
in ever-encroaching creepers of inner event,
twisted to primitive patterns, to throttling growths, to bestial
preying forms! How we gave himself up to it! Loved.
Loved his interior world, his interior jungle,
that primal forest within, on whose mute overthrowness,
light-green, his heart stood. Loved."
("The Third Elegy," 176)
"And you, am I not right, -
you that would love me for that small beginning
of love for you I always turned away from,
because the space within your faces changed,
even while I loved i, into cosmic space
where you no longer were..."
("The Fourth Elegy," 180 - 181)
"Angel, even if I were, you'd never come! For my call
is always full of outgoing; against such a powerful
current you cannot advance. Like an outstretched
arm is my call. And its hand, for some grasping,
skywardly opened, remains before you
as opened so wide but for warding
and warning, Inapprehensible."
("The Seventh Elegy," 195)
"And we, spectators always, everywhere,
looking at, never out of, everything!
It fills us. We arrange it. It collapses.
We re-arrange it, and collapse ourselves."
("The Eighth Elegy," 198)
"Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future
are growing less...... Supernumerous existence
wells up in my heart."
("The Ninth Elegy," 203)
"And yet, were they waking a symbol within us, the endlessly dead,
look, they'd be pointing, perhaps, to the catkins, hanging
from empty hazels, or else
to the rain downfalling on dark soil-bed in early Spring. -
And we, who think of ascending
happiness, then would feel
the emotion that almost startles
when happiness falls."
("The Tenth Elegy," 209)
----
From Letters to a Young Poet
"Irony: Do not let yourself be governed by it, especially not in unproductive moments. In productive ones try to make use of it as one more means of seizing life. Used purely, it is itself pure, and one need not be ashamed of it; and when you feel too familiar with it, when you fear the growing intimacy with it, then turn towards great and serious subjects, before which it becomes small and helpless. [...] For under the influence of serious things [irony] will either fall away from you (if it is something non-essential), or else it will (if it belongs to you innately) with gathering strength become a serious tool and be ranked among the means by which you will have to form your art" (219 - 220).
"If you hold to Nature, to the simplicity that is in her, to the small detail that scarcely one man sees, which can so unexpectedly grow into something great and boundless; if you have this love for insignificant things and seek, simply as one who serves, to win the confidence of what seems to be poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more conciliatory, not perhaps in the understanding, which lags wondering behind, but in your innermost consciousness, wakefulness and knowing" (224 - 225).
"But everything that once perhaps will be possible to many, the solitary man can already prepare for and build now with his hands, which go less astray. Therefore, dear Sir, love your solitude and bear the pain which it has caused you with fair-sounding lament. [...] Be glad of your growing, into which you can take no one else with you, and be good to those that remain behind, and be self-possessed and quiet with them and do not torment them with your doubts and do not frighten them with your confidence or joy, which they could not comprehend. Seek some unpretending and honest communication with them, which you are under no necessity to alter when you yourself become more and more different; love life in a strange guise in them, and make allowances for those ageing people who fear the solitude in which you trust" (228 - 229).
"Many young people, to be sure, who love falsely, that is simply surrendering, letting solitude go (the average person will always persist in that way), feel the oppression of failure and want to make the situation in which they find themselves full of vitality and fruitful in their own personal fashion -" (232).
"For if we think of this existence of the individual as a larger or smaller room, it becomes clear that most people get to know only one corner of their room, a window seat, a strip of floor which they pace up and down. In that way they have a certain security. And yet how much more human is that insecurity, so fraught with danger, which compels the prisoners in Poe's Tales to grope for the shapes of their ghastly prisons and not to remain unaware of the unspeakable horrors of their dwelling. But we are not prisoners" (240).
"Do not observe yourself too closely. Do not draw too rapid conclusions from what happens to you; let it simply happen to you. Otherwise you will too easily reach the point of looking reproachfully (that is mortally) at your past, which is naturally concerned with everything that is now occurring to you" (242).
"In everything real one is a closer, nearer neighbor to it than in the unreal semi-artistic professions which, while they make show of a relatedness to art, in practice deny and attack the existence of all art, as for instance the whole of journalism does, and almost all criticism and three-quarters of what calls itself and likes to be called literature" (246).
November 29, 2022
shadowy and romantic. the backdrop to his poetry is so, so quiet. it’s the way he settles into the twilight. the only sounds that break the silence are his words and the leaves as he moves through them.
February 8, 2012
I didn't get it. Seriously. Or...maybe I did, and I'm totally underwhelmed.
I loved Rilke's "Letters To a Young Poet", and that's what made me want to look his poems up. Did I pick the wrong selection? I kept feeling like each poem started building momentum to reach significance, but I was robbed of my expectation each and every time. Only one poem that really seemed to reach me (The Dog), which was incredible. One! Could Rilke be too much of a romantic/surrealist to appeal to me? It was all so maudlin and hyper-sensitive, emotionally effusive and I would even say it indulged in emotive gluttony. I totally admit that I may be too crude and obtuse for Rilke's finer sensibilities and razor-sharp intellect...but it just felt way too florid and anemic.
Poor Rilke. I didn't mean it. Or maybe I did. Just tell me one thing, did I understand you or not?
To be fair, I only read about 60 pages before I started to think I was wasting my time. If anyone thinks I might change my mind on a poem I haven't read of his, please steer me straight. I want to believe. I want to believe. I want to believe.
I loved Rilke's "Letters To a Young Poet", and that's what made me want to look his poems up. Did I pick the wrong selection? I kept feeling like each poem started building momentum to reach significance, but I was robbed of my expectation each and every time. Only one poem that really seemed to reach me (The Dog), which was incredible. One! Could Rilke be too much of a romantic/surrealist to appeal to me? It was all so maudlin and hyper-sensitive, emotionally effusive and I would even say it indulged in emotive gluttony. I totally admit that I may be too crude and obtuse for Rilke's finer sensibilities and razor-sharp intellect...but it just felt way too florid and anemic.
Poor Rilke. I didn't mean it. Or maybe I did. Just tell me one thing, did I understand you or not?
To be fair, I only read about 60 pages before I started to think I was wasting my time. If anyone thinks I might change my mind on a poem I haven't read of his, please steer me straight. I want to believe. I want to believe. I want to believe.
March 29, 2011
If you're a fan of Rilke, you'll enjoy this compact book of his poems. The book contains poems from: The Book of Images; New Poems; Requiem for a Friend; Poems, 1906-1926; French Poems; The Life of Mary; Sonnets to Orpheus; The Duino Elegies; Letters to a Young Poet; and an index of first lines. My personal favorite is the French Poems, especially "Child in Red". To have a multitude of his poems from various books compiled into one creates an interesting view of Rilke's work as a whole.
May 15, 2019
Anyone who knows me already knows I love Rilke — that said, it's difficult to "rate" poetry collections. Rilke will always get the full five from me. This pocket Everyman's Library edition is a perfectly selected collection of Rilke's poetry, a great introduction for first-comers, or if you're wanting to introduce a friend to the world of Rilke.
September 3, 2021
A lovely book of poetry by the esteemed Austrian writer. I like many of Rilke’s poems, and in this particular little book I especially enjoy Stars behind Olives, To the Moon, To Music, and The Swan. Others, like the Duino Elegies, are really beautiful and intense but too religious at the same time. I definitely recommend.
February 18, 2014
Cornucopia...
July 12, 2014
I don't really "get" poetry.
Read
December 16, 2025I love the Russians.
The Russians love Rilke.
Therefore, I am giving him a shot. I read Rilke's "Letters from a Young Poet," [or rather, the letters that Kappus wheedled out of Rilke] and those letters gave me a certain impression of Rilke, i.e., that he was a romantic—which he was—and that he was a hedonist—which he also likely was—and that he was fairly selfish, and an isolationist—also probably true—and that he was a vague atheist—which he really, really wasn't.
The LARGE majority of these poems were meditations on scriptural moments.
Some of them quite good.
Many of them, very, very Catholic. (The ones on Mary made me go and read the Pseudo-Matthew text)
Some of my favorites:
-Before the Passion
-Of The Marriage At Cana
-Childhood
-Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes.
The Russians love Rilke.
Therefore, I am giving him a shot. I read Rilke's "Letters from a Young Poet," [or rather, the letters that Kappus wheedled out of Rilke] and those letters gave me a certain impression of Rilke, i.e., that he was a romantic—which he was—and that he was a hedonist—which he also likely was—and that he was fairly selfish, and an isolationist—also probably true—and that he was a vague atheist—which he really, really wasn't.
The LARGE majority of these poems were meditations on scriptural moments.
Some of them quite good.
Many of them, very, very Catholic. (The ones on Mary made me go and read the Pseudo-Matthew text)
Some of my favorites:
-Before the Passion
-Of The Marriage At Cana
-Childhood
-Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes.
April 30, 2019
I don’t read much poetry, especially more traditional poetry, but was drawn to this via a display at my library for poetry month and having heard the name Rilke praised by more than one author I have loved. There were a couple/few poems that I connected with and found quite beautiful. Mostly I just couldn’t penetrate the language (which is purely on me; I’ve always needed a class to guide me through most poetry to help me discover it’s beauty). I’m thankful for that display and that I finally got to give some of his poetry a shot, but ultimately it’s just not for me. I’m glad, though, that others find it so beautiful and are able to share that joy with me.
September 21, 2020
Яαιиɛя 𐌼αяια Яιℓκɛ-Ƥσɛмƨ
"𝚆𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍
𝚆𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍
𝚆𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎."
🇷🇸
📝𝑬𝒌𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂-𝑶č𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒋𝒖ć𝒊 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒛𝒐𝒓𝒊
🎭𝑰𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒌𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒋𝒂(𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒐𝒗𝒊)-𝑷𝒆𝒔𝒏𝒊𝒌 𝒛𝒂č𝒖đ𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒋𝒖𝒅𝒔𝒌𝒐𝒎 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒛𝒏𝒐šć𝒖
🤓👻🧙🏼♀️𝑽𝒊𝒛𝒊𝒋𝒂(𝑺𝒂𝒏)-𝑵𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒛𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒊
🥣𝑼𝒌𝒖𝒔-𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒅𝒂
💐𝑴𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒔-𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒅𝒆
🎨𝑩𝒐𝒋𝒂-𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂
🎧𝒁𝒗𝒖𝒌-Ž𝒖𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒆
🐙𝑫𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒓-𝒛𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒍𝒋𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒕
✒𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒂9️⃣
🇺🇸
📝𝓔𝔁𝓽𝓻𝓪-𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓹𝓲𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓼
🎭𝓘𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷(𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼)-𝓹𝓸𝓮𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓮
👻🧙🏼♀️🤓𝓥𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷(𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶)-𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓪𝓻𝓽
🥣𝓣𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮-𝓵𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓭𝓮
💐𝓢𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓵-𝓰𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓯𝓲𝓮𝓵𝓭𝓼
🎨𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻-𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓫𝓵𝓮
🎧𝓢𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭-𝓰𝓾𝓻𝓰𝓵𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝔀𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻
🐙𝓣𝓸𝓾𝓬𝓱-𝓪𝓭𝓶𝓲𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷
✒𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓮9️⃣
#knjige #classicliterature #7sensesofabook #bookstagram #readingaddict #literature
"𝚆𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍
𝚆𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍
𝚆𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎."
🇷🇸
📝𝑬𝒌𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂-𝑶č𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒋𝒖ć𝒊 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒛𝒐𝒓𝒊
🎭𝑰𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒌𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒋𝒂(𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒐𝒗𝒊)-𝑷𝒆𝒔𝒏𝒊𝒌 𝒛𝒂č𝒖đ𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒋𝒖𝒅𝒔𝒌𝒐𝒎 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒛𝒏𝒐šć𝒖
🤓👻🧙🏼♀️𝑽𝒊𝒛𝒊𝒋𝒂(𝑺𝒂𝒏)-𝑵𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒛𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒊
🥣𝑼𝒌𝒖𝒔-𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒅𝒂
💐𝑴𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒔-𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒅𝒆
🎨𝑩𝒐𝒋𝒂-𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂
🎧𝒁𝒗𝒖𝒌-Ž𝒖𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒆
🐙𝑫𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒓-𝒛𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒍𝒋𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒕
✒𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒂9️⃣
🇺🇸
📝𝓔𝔁𝓽𝓻𝓪-𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓹𝓲𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓼
🎭𝓘𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷(𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼)-𝓹𝓸𝓮𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓮
👻🧙🏼♀️🤓𝓥𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷(𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶)-𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓪𝓻𝓽
🥣𝓣𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮-𝓵𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓭𝓮
💐𝓢𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓵-𝓰𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓯𝓲𝓮𝓵𝓭𝓼
🎨𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻-𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓫𝓵𝓮
🎧𝓢𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭-𝓰𝓾𝓻𝓰𝓵𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝔀𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻
🐙𝓣𝓸𝓾𝓬𝓱-𝓪𝓭𝓶𝓲𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷
✒𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓮9️⃣
#knjige #classicliterature #7sensesofabook #bookstagram #readingaddict #literature
December 11, 2023
Nur 4sterne weil ich es lieber auf deutsch gelesen hätte.
Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.
Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.
Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf -. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille -
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.
Gänsehaut 🫶🏻
Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.
Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.
Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf -. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille -
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.
Gänsehaut 🫶🏻
March 26, 2024
I'm going to be honest, some poems were great like Titmouse (ha what a name) and the collection from the French poems and some sonnets, and other times I felt like I was wasting my time. You know when you read something and your mind kind of drifts? That was me around 3/4 of it.
I tried to like it!!! I really did! Always been a fan of Rilke's poetry, but I grew bored of the new collection of poetry and The Life of Mary (he wrote a lot there).
I tried to like it!!! I really did! Always been a fan of Rilke's poetry, but I grew bored of the new collection of poetry and The Life of Mary (he wrote a lot there).
February 8, 2018
Is there anything better than Rilke to make you think about your life? And how you live it? And how others live in and out of your life? His "Requiem for a Friend" poem was given to me recently and I had forgotten how moving his work could be. I keep coming back to him, about every 10 years or so. There is no better sign of a classic than one that evolves with you.
March 19, 2022
I wish I could give it 3 and a half stars. I deeply enjoyed the short poetry, however his prose made me feel like "my brother in Christ what in THE WORLD you're talking about". In my opinion he's at his best writing about simple things.
December 24, 2024
“It is life in slow motion, it's the heart in reverse, it's a hope-and-a-half:
too much and too little at once.”
this whole book…. gorgeous……………………
how do I give 4.5 stars?? it’s only letting me select whole stars :(
too much and too little at once.”
this whole book…. gorgeous……………………
how do I give 4.5 stars?? it’s only letting me select whole stars :(
May 10, 2020
The poetry is beautiful, the translation is dry at times...
June 11, 2022
Learn to summon richness of life by calling yourself a poet, and to move in infinite speed to where the future firmly stands.
Please notify the wind, “I exist.”
Please notify the wind, “I exist.”
December 27, 2022
Nice kaayu uy, siya ray classic siguro na ako maappreciate jud as iin.
March 4, 2023
Trying to read the Duino Elegies while having the flu really made them feel like fever dreams.
February 1, 2025
absolutely amazing I loved it. for some reason I thought I would like the excerpts of Letters to a Young Poet more but the poems really went THROUGH and I can’t recommend it enough!!
Read
January 18, 2014Who knew Rilke was a closet Buddhist and a Feminist? Love this volume.
April 22, 2017
Surreal and wonderful! The selection of his French poems and the Duino Elegies were my personal favorites.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 30 reviews