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Archaischer Torso Apollos ("Archaic Torso of Apollo") by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We cannot know the beheaded god nor his eyes' forfeited visions. But still the figure's trunk glows with the strange vitality of a lamp lit from within, while his composed will emanates dynamism. Otherwise the firmly muscled abdomen could not beguile us, nor the centering loins make us smile at the thought of their generative animus. Otherwise the stone might seem deficient, unworthy of the broad shoulders, of the groin projecting procreation's triangular spearhead upwards, unworthy of the living impulse blazing wildly within like an inchoate star—demanding our belief. You must change your life. Der Panther ("The Panther") by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch His weary vision's so overwhelmed by iron bars, his exhausted eyes see only blank Oblivion. His world is not our world. It has no stars. No light. Ten thousand bars. Nothing beyond. Lithe, swinging with a rhythmic easy stride, he circles, his small orbit tightening, an electron losing power. Paralyzed, soon regal Will stands stunned, an abject thing. Only at times the pupils' curtains rise silently, and then an image enters, descends through arrested shoulders, plunges, centers somewhere within his empty heart, and dies. Herbsttag ("Autumn Day") by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Lord, it is time. Let the immense summer go. Lay your long shadows over the sundials and over the meadows, let the free winds blow. Command the late fruits to fatten and shine; O, grant them another Mediterranean hour! Urge them to completion, and with power convey final sweetness to the heavy wine. Who has no house now, never will build one. Who's alone now, shall continue alone; he'll wake, read, write long letters to friends, and pace the tree-lined pathways up and down, restlessly, as autumn leaves drift and descend. Komm, Du ("Come, You") by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This was Rilke's last poem, written ten days before his death. He died open-eyed in the arms of his doctor on December 29, 1926, in the Valmont Sanatorium, of leukemia and its complications. I had a friend who died of leukemia and he was burning up with fever in the end. I believe that is what Rilke was describing here: he was literally burning alive. Come, you—the last one I acknowledge; return— incurable pain searing this physical mesh. As I burned in the spirit once, so now I burn with you; meanwhile, you consume my flesh. This wood that long resisted your embrace now nourishes you; I surrender to your fury as my gentleness mutates to hellish rage— uncaged, wild, primal, mindless, outré. Completely free, no longer future's pawn, I clambered up this crazy pyre of pain, certain I'd never return—my heart's reserves gone— to become death's nameless victim, purged by flame. Now all I ever was must be denied. I left my memories of my past elsewhere. That life—my former life—remains outside. Inside, I'm lost. Nobody knows me here. Liebes-Lied ("Love Song") by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch How can I withhold my soul so that it doesn't touch yours? How can I lift mine gently to higher things, alone? Oh, I would gladly find something lost in the dark in that inert space that fails to resonate until you vibrate. There everything that moves us, draws us together like a bow enticing two taut strings to sing together with a simultaneous voice. Whose instrument are we becoming together? Whose, the hands that excite us? Ah, sweet song! Das Lied des Bettlers ("The Beggar's Song") by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I live outside your gates, exposed to the rain, exposed to the sun; sometimes I'll cradle my right ear in my right palm; then when I speak my voice sounds strange, alien ... I'm unsure whose voice I'm hearing: mine or yours. I implore a trifle; the poets cry for more. Sometimes I cover both eyes and my face disappears; there it lies heavy in my hands looking peaceful, instead, so that no one would ever think I have no place to lay my head. Keywords/Tags: Rilke, German, translation, sonnet, Germany, god, Apollo, vision, visionary, eyes, pupils, voice, art, sculpture, stone, marble, will, star, stars, life, summer, autumn, fall, sun, sundials, wine, house, friends, leaves, panther, electron, orbit, power, cage, iron, bars, heart, Rodin, tribute

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