Not till it is held in your renouncing

What birds plunge through is not the intimate space

in which you see all forms intensified.
(Out in the Open, you would be denied
your self, would disappear into that vastness.)

Space reaches from us and translates the world:
to know a tree, in its true element,
throw inner space around it, from that pure
abundance in you. Surround it with restraint.
It has no limits. Not till it is held
in your renouncing is it truly there.

 booksvscigarettes:

 Piero Roi. Ophelia, 2008

image:

undr:

Louis Stettner
Avenue de Chatillon, 14th Arrond., Paris, ca. 1949

Space reaches from us and translates the world

What birds plunge through is not the intimate space
in which you see all forms intensified.
(Out in the Open, you would be denied
your self, would disappear into that vastness.

Space reaches from us and translates the world:
to know a tree, in its true element,
throw inner space around it, from that pure
abundance in you. Surround it with restraint.
It has no limits. Not till it is held
in your renouncing is it truly there.

image :here

text: Rilke via booksvscigarettes

And now we welcome

 "And now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been"
 
— Rainer Maria Rilke
:Notebooks of Malte Laurids-Brigge

tearsofmilk via film-grain:

(by Katheryn Love)

Source: katherynlove

Many stars lined up hoping you'd notice

  "Many stars lined up hoping you'd notice,/
A wave rose toward you/out of the past/
or a violin/
offered itself/as you passed an open window/
These were instructions,

your mission/But could you perform it?/

Weren't you always 

distracted/waiting for something..."

 "And we

              who always think

                            of happiness rising

would feel the emotion

               that almost startles us

                              when a happy thing falls."

David Young, trans. ~Rilke, Duino Elegies
                
harrietbrown:

Crime Without Passion (The Furies), 1934.  Dir. Slavko Vorkapich.

colettesaintyves reblogged harrietbrown:

rilke

Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors which it passes to a row of ancient trees. You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth. leaving you, not really belonging to either, not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent, not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing that turns to a star each night and climbs- leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads) your own life, timid and standing high and growing, so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out, one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.     :image Sunset,  Rainer Maria Rilke

The huge summer has gone by.

          Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.

Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,

and on the meadows let the wind go free.

Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;

grant them a few more warm transparent days,

urge them on to fulfillment then, and press

the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now, will never have one.

Whoever is alone will stay alone,

will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,

and wander the boulevards, up and down,

restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

- Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell

: image: Sebastian Waters via  s w o o n d (née diana:muse) 

The waning of summer

That you have but slumbered here/While these visions did appear.

Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.

Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine. 

Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the
evening,
and wander the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.
Rainer Maria Rilke


A Midsummer Night's Dream, 5. 1 

Rilke translated by Stephen Mitchell, 
"The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke" 

images: bricolage