Reflecting Rolke's Prose/Stories of God

Reflecting Rilke’s Prose/Stories of God

First the old man says:
Finding no rest in their beds
The men come out into the night
To gaze wordlessly, agape
At the silent, windless heavens

And then the beardless youth goes on:
Until, in the rising sun
Figures of men can be seen
Silhouetted against the flat distance
Atop the ridges of the kurgans

When a weary mother adds:
Within the kurgans lay cold
The fathers of forgotten fathers
Buried deep in earthen mounds
That ripple on the steppe like waves

To which a strong man responds:
Sometimes birds fly among the mounds
And wild songs drop deep inside
Where graves are the mountains
And men are the abysses

Now the child speaks his part:
Even their houses can’t protect
Them against the limitless steppe
For the dusty windows admit
The glaring light of eternity

A young maiden has this answer:
Only the icons succor them, as
Mileposts on the road to God
Glinting with flecks of gold they
Show His lost children the way

Based on a translation by M. D. Herter Norton

100 words on the subject of: quiet

The house was so quiet I could hear mice skittering in the attic three floors above me. I listened to them running willy-nilly and wondered if they were playing; I’ve always imagined that animals focus pretty much on their own survival – play seems like a luxury.

But in that nearly silent moment I suddenly understood that play is much more than a human diversion. It’s a genetic condition, evolution requires it. Those mice gamboling happily above me would die without their play, I was sure of that. Perhaps they’d have no reason to be born, if not to play quietly.

Lost on the sea of regret

I always thought you were far too pretty for me to ever dream about asking you out to a movie or into my bed or over and over, to the opening chords, again and again.

But I do know a lot of things, like how many feet there are in a mile, and how fast light travels, and what it sounds like when a broken heart hits the floor, scattering.

So I wonder and wonder, and sometimes I just can't breathe from the longing and the hopes and the dreams and devilish schemes that live here inside me.

But I did know instinctively howwhenwhere at the darkening moment when words have no meaning, to touch you, and I know how it feels to fall deeply in love, but to find out that I’m there an hour too late; but then not to know I’m too late until morning.

And I think I know a good song when I hear it, but I just never know quite what it’s about.

And I never know when to say when; or when to keep going but I do know that all will be well if I can.

And I know not to ask why, though why I’m not sure.

But IdocareIdo because caring and burning with fervent desire is feeling a little like living and dying, and dying of hope in the moment that’s fading away.

New Houses

The sun is setting as I roll down the narrow state highway. I’m pushing 80,000 pounds of semi- rig pretty hard and where there are houses or stores the view opens up a bit; but stores and houses mean traffic, so I try to keep my eyes on the road in those stretches. The sun’s low on the horizon and it can blind you. People zip out of side streets - you can’t always see them. Dusk’s a hard time to see when you’re driving.

I coast a bit. There’s a traffic light up ahead, so I let the clutch out all the way and slow down, joining the line of cars.

The light changes to green and I jog over to the right, bypassing the cars in the turning lane. The guy in front of me makes to turn right, and I roll past him. Past the intersection, the view opens up in all directions. I glance to the right and the setting sun blinds me just a little; I look forward again and I see clear road ahead, so I give it some throttle. You know, to pick up speed.

Looking out the side window again I see a bunch of new houses going up in an old field. Some of them are just frames, but others are finished and have a car or two in the driveway.

A lot of people get mad seeing old farms torn up for new houses, but its like arguing about the weather – nothing you’re gonna do. Times change, and people want nice big houses. Helps them feel safe, I guess. What do I know? I drive a long-line delivery route 325 days a year, always have. I spend my nights in an apartment I shared with my dad, or curled up in the back of my cab.

Maybe nice families need big houses like this.

The orange sun on the horizon is mostly hidden by the square blocks of the houses, but as I roll along, the windows of this one house line up just right so I can see right through the house. Window after window flickers with sun, like its on fire.

Through one window, though...I only have a split-second look, but I am pretty sure I see the shape of a woman...and she’s holding a baby.

I wonder if she is excited, looking out, thinking about the grass in the spring. Sure, who wouldn’t? I bet she’s thinking of the trees, and flowers, too, and all of the other growing things. Maybe she’s wondering if there will be kids to play with, or neighbors to share the mornings?

Who knows what nice things a woman will want when she’s got a big sunny house? I bet that house will make her happy.

Then she’s gone. The dark blocks of the houses hide the sun again. I turn to the road ahead and shift gears, giving her throttle. You know, to pick up some speed.

It's January, and I'm so cold

I sit in a parking lot, afraid
Losing this morning's hope
I know you weren’t ready to
Begin this new love affair

I read the poems you wrote me
Regretting the intemperate promise
I made to leave you alone
A promise I always meant to keep

I ask if I might sleep with you again
And openly admit my self-deception
You don’t believe a word I say
I tell you again that I love you

“I’ll make you leave,” you say
You’re angry because I disagreed
And you think I don't take you seriously
Because I’ve ignored your ardent advice

“Why did we start this, Mary?”
These things become so complex
It is all so confusing to me
Even the most important details

“Remember the starling,” you ask?
“That died on my front porch
The day we first made love?
That and sex are all I have to offer you.”

(untitled)

Both of us go through life
drenched by the liquid sky
captured by the insane dancing
startled and repelled by the maddening sound
we hear but can't recall,
as if we dreamed it
and forgot
the noise we call
sensation and lust.

We are too busy with all of these
to step back from
the flickering delusions
projected on the scrim.

Winds or deadly calm?

They speak of certain winds that drive people crazy - Hermann Hesse wrote about the Fohn, a wind in his adopted land of Switzerland; the Saharan nomads hunker down when the blue sirocco blows across the molten sands; the hot, dry Santa Ana in California have driven whole cities insane, and made it rain frogs.

But I think the August doldrums are worse...the dead calm of the middle of August that just sits on your sweltering soul and dares you to do something - do ANYTHING! Just as long as it’s fun and crazy!

Make the choice: act or die.