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Sonnets to Orpheus
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Rainer Maria Rilke's fifty-five Sonnets to Orpheus were written over a few days in an astonishing burst of inspiration. Described by Rilke himself as "a spontaneous inner dictation," the sequence is among the most famous works of modernist literature, and Christiane Marks's fresh new translations succeed in evoking Rilke's musicâoften sacrificed in translationâopening a new window on these poems, for old and new Rilke lovers alike. The result of nearly two decades of memorization, research, and fine-tuning, Marks's translations, only the second by a woman and the first by a native German speaker, recapture Rilke's astonishingly contemporary, often colloquial style.
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PoetryIndex
Literature1:1
Da stieg ein Baum. O reine Ăbersteigung!
O Orpheus singt! O hoher Baum im Ohr!
Und alles schwieg. Doch selbst in der Verschweigung
ging neuer Anfang, Wink und Wandlung vor.
Tiere aus Stille drangen aus dem klaren
gelösten Wald von Lager und Genist;
und da ergab sich, dass sie nicht aus List
und nicht aus Angst in sich so leise waren,
sondern aus Hören. BrĂŒllen, Schrei, Geröhr
schien klein in ihrem Herzen. Und wo eben
kaum eine HĂŒtte war, dies zu empfangen,
ein Unterschlupf aus dunkelstem Verlangen
mit einem Zugang, dessen Pfosten beben, â
da schufst du ihnen Tempel im Gehör.
1:1
There, seeâa tree ascended. Pure transcendence!
Oh, Orpheus sings! Oh, tall tree in the ear!
And all was silent. Yet that silence yielded
beginnings, beckonings, and transformations.
Creatures of stillness issued from the clear,
wide-open forest filled with lairs and nests.
And it turned out that neither cunning
nor fear had caused this inner quiet,
but listening had. Bellow and shriek and roar
seemed small inside their hearts, and where just now
thereâd scarcely been a hut to take this inâ
a hidden refuge made of darkest longing,
the very doorposts of its entrance quakingâ
you raised up temples for them in their ears.
1:2
Und fast ein MĂ€dchen wars und ging hervor
aus diesem einigen GlĂŒck von Sang und Leier
und glĂ€nzte klar durch ihre FrĂŒhlingsschleier
und machte sich ein Bett in meinem Ohr.
Und schlief in mir. Und alles war ihr Schlaf.
Die BĂ€ume, die ich je bewundert, diese
fĂŒhlbare Ferne, die gefĂŒhlte Wiese
und jedes Staunen, das mich selbst betraf.
Sie schlief die Welt. Singender Gott, wie hast
du sie vollendet, dass sie nicht begehrte,
erst wach zu sein? Sieh, sie erstand und schlief.
Wo ist ihr Tod? O, wirst du dies Motiv
erfinden noch, eh sich dein Lied verzehrte? â
Wo sinkt sie hin aus mir? ⊠Ein MĂ€dchen fast âŠ
1:2
It was a girl, almost, who was engendered
by this one blended joy of song and lyre,
and shone out radiantly through veils of springtime
and made herself a bed inside my ear.
And slept in me. And she slept everything.
All trees that ever I admired, the distance
that I could feel, this meadow that I felt,
and all of my amazement at myself.
She slept the world. Say, singing god, how did you
create her so she did not wish to be
awake at first? For see, she rose and slept.
Where is her death? Oh, will you still complete
this theme before your song consumes itself?
Sheâs sinking out of me ⊠to where? A girl, almost âŠ
1:3
Ein Gott vermags. Wie aber, sag mir, soll
ein Mann ihm folgen durch die schmale Leier?
Sein Sinn ist Zwiespalt. An der Kreuzung zweier
Herzwege steht kein Tempel fĂŒr Apoll.
Gesang, wie du ihn lehrst, ist nicht Begehr,
nicht Werbung um ein endlich noch Erreichtes;
Gesang ist Dasein. FĂŒr den Gott ein Leichtes.
Wann aber sind wir? Und wann wendet er
an unser Sein die Erde und die Sterne?
Dies ists nicht, JĂŒngling, dass du liebst, wenn auch
die Stimme dann den Mund dir aufstösst, â lerne
vergessen, dass du aufsangst. Das verrinnt.
In Wahrheit singen, ist ein andrer Hauch.
Ein Hauch um nichts. Ein Wehn im Gott. Ein Wind.
1:3
A god can do it. But, how, tell me, can
a man pass through the slender lyre and follow?
His mindâs in conflict, and where heart-ways cross
no one erects a temple for Apollo.
Song as itâs taught by you is not desire,
does not court distant goals, barely achieved.
Singing is being. Easy for a god.
When will we truly be? And when does he
turn toward our being earth and stars?
Falling in love, young man, is not what matters, though
song then bursts from your lips. Learn to forget
such spasms of song. They have no permanence.
True song is carried by a different breathâ
an aimless breath, blown i...
Table of contents
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Contents
- Foreword
- Translatorâs Introduction
- 1:1
- 1:1