Does it exist, though, Time the destroyer?

Does it exist, though, Time the destroyer?
When will it scatter the tower on the resting hill?
This heart, the eternal gods’ eternal enjoyer,
when shall the Demiurge ravish and spill?

Are we really such tremblingly breakable
things as Destiny tries to pretend?
Does childhood’s promise, deep, unmistakable,
down in the roots, then, later, end?

Ah, Mutability’s spectre!
out through the simple accepter
you, like a vapour, recede.

We, though we wax but for waning,
fill none the less for remaining
powers a celestial need.
Rainer Maria Rilke
(From Sonnets To Orpheus)



The Wait – Rilke

The Wait

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.

It’s a train that suddenly
stops with no station around,
and we can hear the cricket,
and, leaning out the carriage

door, we vainly contemplate
a wind we feel that stirs
the blooming meadows, the meadows
made imaginary by this stop.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Rilke Poems ( from Orchards)


Clouds- Rainer Maria Rilke



These laborers of rain, these heavy clouds,DSC01472
see how evening takes them on celestial vacations;
a delirium of uselessness has gripped them,
and their vacationing edges dare transparencies.

They nonchalantly imitate mountains and islands
and propose luminous caps to the shipwrecks of sight.
And later, in front of the moon,
how many of there profiles will become feminine.

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.

-Rainer Maria Rilke
From French poems : translated by A.Poulin, JR

Breathing, invisible poem!

Translated by J. B. Leishman

Breathing, invisible poem! That great
world-space, at each inhalation
exchanged for this human existence.
of my rhythmical realization.

Single wavelet, whose slowly
gathering sea am I;
you, of all possible seas most frugal and lowly,-
space laid-by.

Of all these places in space, how many a one
has been within me already. Many a wind
seems like a son.

Do you know me, air, still full of my
You, the one-time smooth-skinned
rondure and leaf of my phrases.

–Rainer Maria Rilke
from Rilke Poems


From French poems : translated by A.Poulin, JR

A beautiful butterfly near
the earth is displaying
the illuminations of its flying
book to an attentive nature.

Another closes on the border
of the flower that we breath;
this is not the time to read.
And still so many others,

fragile blues scattered,
floating and fluttering
like the blue fragmenting
of a love letter in the wind,

of a torn-up letter
we had just been writing
while its addressee
hesitated at the door.

You don’t survive in me
because of memories;
nor are you mine because
of a lovely longing’s strength.

What does make you present
is the ardent detour
that a slow tenderness
traces in my blood.

I do not need
to see you appear;
being born sufficed for me
to lose you a little less.
——Rainer Maria Rilke