From a kind reader I received a poem in response to a poem, the one I posted here recently, “The Birthnight.”It was only a few months ago that I borrowed a hefty volume of Rilke’s poems from the library, and I think I looked at every one. If I saw this one, I forgot it already; in any case, I’m very glad to have it brought to my attention.
I AM, YOU ANXIOUS ONE
I am, you anxious one. Don’t you sense me, ready to break into being at your touch? My murmurings surround you like shadowy wings. Can’t you see me standing before you cloaked in stillness? Hasn’t my longing ripened in you from the beginning as fruit ripens on a branch? I am the dream you are dreaming. When you want to awaken, I am that wanting: I grow strong in the beauty you behold. And with the silence of stars I enfold your cities made by time.
Beyond the sunny Philippines An island lies, whose name I do not know; But that’s of little consequence, if so You understand that there they had no hens; Till, by a happy chance, a traveller, After a while, carried some poultry there. Fast they increased as any one could wish; Until fresh eggs became the common dish. But all the natives ate them boiled,—they say,— Because the stranger taught no other way. At last the experiment by one was tried— Sagacious man!—of having his eggs fried. And, O! what boundless honors, for his pains, His fruitful and inventive fancy gains! Another, now, to have them baked devised,— Most happy thought!—and still another, spiced. Who ever thought eggs were so delicate! Next, some one gave his friends an omelette: “Ah!” all exclaimed, “what an ingenious feat!”
But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts, “I have it now,—ye ‘re all a pack of louts!— With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed.” And the whole island thought the mode so good, That they would so have cooked them to this day, But that a stranger, wandering out that way, Another dish the gaping natives taught, And showed them eggs cooked à la Huguenot.
Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse; But how shall I be able to rehearse All of the new, delicious condiments That luxury, from time to time, invents? Soft, hard and dropped; and now with sugar sweet, And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat; In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle. All had their day—the last was still the best. But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed The epicures: “Boast, ninnies, if you will, These countless prodigies of gastric skill— But blessings on the man who brought the hens!”
Beyond the sunny Philippines Our crowd of modern authors need not go New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.
-Thomas Iriarte, Translated from the Spanish by Geo. H. Devereux
They stand in parks and graveyards and gardens. Some of them are taller than department stores, yet they do not draw attention to themselves.
You will be fitting a heated towel rail one day and see, through the louvre window, a shoal of olive-green fish changing direction in the air that swims above the little gardens.
Or you will wake at your aunt’s cottage, your sleep broken by a coal train on the empty hill as the oaks roar in the wind off the channel.
Your kindness to animals, your skill at the clarinet, these are accidental things. We lost this game a long way back. Look at you. You’re reading poetry. Outside the spring air is thick with the seeds of their children.
Among my family and friends we remember many May birthdays. ………………..I offer this poem in honor of them all.
THE BIRTHNIGHT
Dearest, it was a night That in its darkness rocked Orion’s stars; A sighing wind ran faintly white Along the willows, and the cedar boughs Laid their wide hands in stealthy peace across The starry silence of their antique moss: No sound save rushing air Cold, yet all sweet with Spring, And in thy mother’s arms, couched weeping there, Thou, lovely thing.
