When I Go Read online

  (Et ta simplicité supprime un Ange.)

  Lovers and Writers

  Sometimes lovers or writers

  find a few ephemeral words

  that turn the heart into a glad place

  of endless reverie. . . .

  Invisible strength is born there

  beneath everything that happens;

  its footprints can’t be seen

  except in the steps of a dance.

  12

  Parfois les amants ou ceux qui écrivent

  trouvent des mots qui, bien qu’ils s’effacent,

  laissent dans un cœur une place heureuse

  à jamais pensive . . . .

  Car il en naît sous tout ce qui passe

  d’invisibles persévérances;

  sans qu’ils creusent aucune trace

  quelques-uns restent des pas de la danse.

  When I Go

  When I go, will I have spoken

  my tormented heart that agrees to go on?

  Until my dying day must I learn from

  that old teacher named Unexpected?

  Words of tender admiration spoken too late

  are eclipsed by a summer day.

  Which of our half-open flower-words

  exhale pure perfume?

  And shouldn’t this beautiful woman

  step into a pastoral scene when she goes?

  The sweet ribbon fluttering behind her

  has more life than this grasping line.

  13

  L’aurai-je exprimé, avant de m’en aller,

  ce cœur qui, tourmenté, consent à être?

  Étonnement sans fin, qui fus mon maître,

  jusqu’à la fin t’aurai-je imité?

  Mais tout surpasse comme un jour d’été

  le tendre geste qui trop tard admire;

  dans nos paroles écloses, qui respire

  le pur parfum d’identité?

  Et cette belle qui s’en va, comment

  la ferait-on passer par une image?

  Son doux ruban flottant vit davantage

  que cette ligne qui s’éprend.

  The Grave

  (in a park)

  Sleep, child, under your stone

  down at the end of the lane.

  We’ll circle around your empty space

  and sing a summer song.

  If a snow-white dove in flight

  passes over our heads,

  I can offer your grave only this:

  its shadow as it falls.

  14 Tombeau

  [dans un parc]

  Dors au fond de l’allée,

  tendre enfant, sous la dalle;

  on fera le chant de l’été

  autour de ton intervalle.

  Si une blanche colombe

  passait au vol là-haut,

  je n’offrirais à ton tombeau

  que son ombre qui tombe.

  What Longing, What Regret

  To what longing, to what regret

  have we fallen victim,

  we who mine poetry

  for the unique universal?

  Obstinate that we are,

  we let our mistakes lead the way,

  but of all human mistakes,

  that one is pure gold.

  15

  De quelle attente, de quel

  regret sommes-nous les victimes,

  nous qui cherchons des rimes

  à l’unique universel?

  Nous poursuivons notre tort

  en obstinés que nous sommes;

  mais entre les torts des hommes

  c’est un tort tout en or.

  4

  Valaisian Quatrains

  “I would describe myself like a landscape I’ve studied at length.”6

  Rilke considered these the core of his French poems.7 Beyond the tribute to France, Switzerland, and the French language, the “Quatrains” express the spiritual aspect of the landscape of the Valais that had received him so well, where his soul had found solace.

  Well grounded in geography and history, this place “Instead of denying its nature, / . . . gives itself permission” to be itself, a land of natural paradox. In the interplay between light and shadow, soil and sun, there is dynamic alchemy that “will end up in the wine.” Indeed, man-made influence plays a seamless part in this landscape, especially the vineyards that produce “the cluster, the link / between us and the dead.” Stone towers and their bells, crumbling walls overgrown with hedges, even the villages themselves bless humanity with their teachings about memory and impermanence, embodying the essence of the earth, the same as any tree or stream.

  I experience these poems like a Cezanne still-life, a study in contrast with corners of darkness worth exploring and occasional bursts of bright color, reminders of goodness. Unlike a still-life, there is movement everywhere, the “gorgeous momentum” of the artisan. Often the reader’s attention is directed upward, away from “this ardent land” to “climb toward a sky that nobly understands / its difficult past.” Much spaciousness is revealed in the emptiness of sky and wind that “takes brightness / from tall cornstalks. . . / rising to higher altitudes.” The marriage of solid earth with “all the youth of the sky” is the primordial source of creation in which artists of all time participate. In the sound of flowing water and the vineyards “in line,” Rilke saw space in language, the silence “between words / moving along in rhythm.”

  Dramatic days of cloud-play lead to rest, as “evening settles / into infinite peace.” Did Rilke find some of that peace within himself? He wrote in a letter that the hills of the Valais seemed to have space around them and bring space with them, like a Rodin sculpture. “It is not only the loveliest landscape I have ever seen, but capable of reflecting one’s inner experience.”8

  6. Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke’s Book of Hours, trans. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy (New York: Penguin, 2005), 69.

  7. Liselotte Dieckmann, “Rainer Maria Rilke’s French Poems,” Modern Language Quarterly, 12 (1951) 323.

  8. Dieckmann, “Rainer Maria Rilke’s French Poems,” 331.

  This Land

  This land floats in mid-air

  between earth and heaven,

  with voices of water and stone,

  young and old, gentle and strong

  like an offering lifted

  toward receiving hands.

  Land at its best,

  warm as fresh bread.

  2

  Pays, arrêté à mi-chemin

  entre la terre et les cieux,

  aux voix d’eau et d’airain,

  doux et dur, jeune et vieux,

  comme une offrande levé

  vers accueillantes mains,

  beau pays achevé

  chaud comme le pain!

  Rose and Wall

  Lighted rose, a crumbling wall—

  yet, on the slope of the hill

  this high flower, like Proserpina,

  makes a hesitant gesture.

  The vineyard, no doubt, drinks its fill

  of shadow, and too much light

  gallops down upon it

  from the wrong direction.

  3

  Rose de lumière, un mur qui s’effrite—

  mais, sur la pente de la colline,

  cette fleur qui, haute, hésite

  dans son geste de Proserpine.

  Beaucoup d’ombre entre sans doute

  dans la sève de cette vigne;

  et ce trop de clarté qui trépigne

  au-dessus d’elle, trompe la route.

  Towers

  The towers of this ancient country insist

  that t
heir bells remember—

  without being sad, the wrinkled features

  sadly show their ancient shadows.

  So many forces exhaust themselves:

  sun turns the vineyards gold . . .

  and spaces glimmer in the distance

  like futures we do not know.

  4

  Contrée ancienne, aux tours qui insistent

  tant que les carillons se souviennent—

  aux regards qui, sans être tristes,

  tristement montrent leurs ombres anciennes.

  Vignes où tant de forces s’épuisent

  lorsqu’un soleil terrible les dore . . .

  Et, au loin, ces espaces qui luisent

  comme des avenirs qu’on ignore.

  Lovely Curve

  Lovely curve along the ivy,

  languid lane that slows the goats;

  beautiful light that any jeweler

  would wish to contain in a stone.

  A poplar in its proper place

  balances its verticality

  with slow, solid green

  that stretches from side to side.

  5

  Douce courbe le long du lierre,

  chemin distrait qu’arrêtent des chèvres;

  belle lumière qu’un orfèvre

  voudrait entourer d’une pierre.

  Peuplier, à sa place juste,

  qui oppose sa verticale

  à la lente verdure robuste

  qui s’étire et qui s’étale.

  Silent Land of Quiet Prophets

  Silent land of quiet prophets,

  land that grows its wine,

  where the hills still feel Genesis

  and never fear demise!

  Land too proud to want to change,

  that, like elm and walnut,

  obeys the coming of summer,

  happy to repeat itself.

  Only water brings news to this land,

  all the generous waters

  that soften the earth’s hard consonants

  with their bright, clear vowels.

  6

  Pays silencieux dont les prophètes se taisent,

  pays qui prépare son vin;

  où les collines sentent encore la Genèse

  et ne craignent pas la fin!

  Pays, trop fier pour désirer ce qui transforme,

  qui, obéissant à l’été,

  semble, autant que le noyer et que l’orme,

  heureux de se répéter.

  Pays dont les eaux sont presque les seules nouvelles,

  toutes ces eaux qui se donnent,

  mettant partout la clarté de leurs voyelles

  entre tes dures consonnes!

  Alpine Meadows

  Do you see the angelic alpine meadows

  high between the dark pines?

  So distant, almost heavenly,

  lit with the strangest light.

  From the bright valley all the way to the peaks,

  what airborne treasure!

  Everything floating in this air

  will end up in the wine.

  7

  Vois-tu, là-haut, ces alpages des anges

  entre les sombres sapins?

  Presque célestes, à la lumière étrange,

  ils semblent plus que loin.

  Mais dans la claire vallée et jusqu’aux crêtes,

  quel trésor aérien!

  Tout ce qui flotte dans l’air et qui s’y reflète

  entrera dans ton vin.

  The Invisible

  It’s almost the invisible that glimmers

  above the winged incline;

  a bit of clear night lingers

  mingled with the silver of day.

  Look, the light is so light

  on the long-suffering contours,

  and the hamlets down there, someone

  consoles them for being so far away.

  9

  C’est presque l’invisible qui luit

  au-dessus de la pente ailée;

  il reste un peu d’une claire nuit

  à ce jour en argent mêlée.

  Vois, la lumière ne pèse point

  sur ces obéissants contours,

  et, là-bas, ces hameaux, d’être loin,

  quelqu’un les console toujours.

  Altars Where the Fruit Was Laid

  Oh, these altars where the fruit was laid

  alongside a lovely terebinth branch

  or one from the pale olive tree—

  and also a flower, dying, bruised in an embrace.

  Hidden in the green of this vineyard,

  could we find the original altar?

  The offering is ripe; the Virgin herself

  would bless it, counting her carillon beads.

  10

  Ô ces autels où l’on mettait des fruits

  avec un beau rameau de térébinthe

  ou de ce pâle olivier—et puis

  la fleur qui meurt, écrasée par l’étreinte.

  Entrant dans cette vigne, trouverait-on

  l’autel naïf, caché par la verdure?

  La Vierge même bénirait la mûre

  offrande, égrainant son carillon.

  This Sanctuary

  Even so, let us bring to this sanctuary

  all that nourishes—bread and salt,

  these handsome grapes—and bewilder the mother

  with this immense maternal realm.

  Across the ages, this chapel has linked

  ancient gods with gods of the future,

  and this ancient, wise walnut tree

  offers its shade, a pure temple.

  11

  Portons quand même à ce sanctuaire

  tout ce qui nous nourrit: le pain, le sel,

  ce beau raisin . . . . Et confondons la mère

  avec l’immense règne maternel.

  Cette chapelle, à travers les âges,

  relie d’anciens dieux aux dieux futurs,

  et l’ancien noyer, cet arbre-mage,

  offre son ombre comme un temple pur.

  The Belltower Sings

  I’m not an ordinary tower.

  I warm my carillon to make it ready.

  May it be sweet, may it be good

  for the Valaisian women.

  Every Sunday, note by note,

  I scatter my manna among them.

  Let my carillon be good

  for the Valaisian women.

  May it be sweet, may it be good

  on Saturday night in the towns

  when the droplets of carillon fall

  on the men of the Valaisian women.

  12: Le Clocher Chante

  Mieux qu’une tour profane,

  je me chauffe pour mûrir mon carillon.

  Qu’il soit doux, qu’il soit bon

  aux Valaisannes.

  Chaque dimanche, ton par ton,

  je leur jette ma manne;

  qu’il soit bon, mon carillon,

  aux Valaisannes.

  Qu’il soit doux, qu’il soit bon;

  samedi soir dans les channes

  tombe en gouttes mon carillon

  aux Valaisans des Valaisannes.

  The Year Turns

  The year turns on the pivot

  of peasant perseverance;

  the Virgin and Saint Anne

  both have something to say.

  More ancient words

  also come into play;

  everything is blessed

  and out of the earth

  comes a timid green

  whose effor
t eventually

  yields the cluster, the link

  between us and the dead.

  13

  L’année tourne autour du pivot

  de la constance paysanne;

  la Vierge et Sainte Anne

  disent chacune leur mot.

  D’autres paroles s’ajoutent

  plus anciennes encor—

  elles bénissent toutes,

  et de la terre sort

  cette verdure soumise

  qui, par un long effort,

  donne la grappe prise

  entre nous et les morts.

  A Rosy Mauve

  A rosy mauve in the tall grass,

  a gentle gray, the vineyards in line . . .

  but a glorious sky above the slopes

  looks like a prince who’s receiving.

  This ardent land nobly climbs

  toward a sky that nobly understands

  that a difficult past forever requires

  a life of vigor and vigilance.

  14

  Un rose mauve dans les hautes herbes,

  un gris soumis, la vigne alignée . . . .

  Mais au-dessus des pentes, la superbe

  d’un ciel qui reçoit, d’un ciel princier.

  Ardent pays qui noblement s’étage

  vers ce grand ciel qui noblement comprend