Tag Archives: poets

Rainer Maria Rilke, Literary Birthday, December 4

“Ah, how good it is to be among people who are reading!”

Rainer Maria Rilke

This quote is one of my favorites because it is a great pleasure to be among readers. Especially my readers here at Reading Fiction Blog.

This Austrian poet and novelist is known as one of the German language’s greatest 20th century poets. His most famous prose works  is Letters to a Young Poet. 

Many of you know I spent several years studying Rilke and his prose, poems, and creative spirit for my novel Draakensky. The character, sketch artist, Charlotte Knight illustrates Rilke’s poetry in the novel. Illustrating poetry is a highly skilled craft and Charlotte dives into the challenge with ghosts rising on the Draakensky estate, magickal realms surrounding her, and the mysteries of wolf magick haunting her.

Celebrating Rilke on this anniversary date, I suggest that you might enjoy my video on Rilke’s books that I have in my literary studio. If you have not read anything of Rilke, you are missing out on great lyrical images and inspiring aesthetic philosophy.

 

“The only journey is the one within.”

 

 

SILENT HOUR

Whoever weeps somewhere out in the world
Weeps without cause in the world
Weeps over me.

Whoever laughs somewhere out in the night
Laughs without cause in the night
Laughs at me.

Whoever wanders somewhere in the world
Wanders in vain in the world
Wanders to me.

Whoever dies somewhere in the world
Dies without cause in the world
Looks at me.

 

Please drop a comment!

I would love to  hear your thoughts about Rilke.

 

 

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Winter Solstice and May Sarton Christmas

Greetings and Merry Christmas!

Sunday, December 10th, 2023

 

For the holiday season, December 12 is National Poinsetta Day, which represents the winter solstice, when darkness turns to light and nature begins to regenerate for the winter’s solstice on December 21. The star shaped poinsetta brings good cheer and purity.

I thought I’d feature May Sarton’s poem Christmas Light for the month of December. I don’t have permissions to reprint the poem here but you can read it at the link below at The Writer’s Almanac by Garrison Keillor.

Read it here (also available is an audio reading by Keillor): https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2013%252F12%252F21.html

Opening lines:

When everyone had gone
I sat in the library
With the small silent tree
… …

 

 

 

Below is a link to a documentary film: A World of Light, Portrait of May Sarton. A Film by Martha Wheelock and Marita Giovanni Simpson (1980). If you want to enter the world of May Sarton, poet and novelist, this  30-minute film is an intimate conversation. May speaks about her poetry, her life as a woman writer, her career, and her solitude. One of those treasures that you might like to watch again and again.

On YouTube@wildwestwomenfilms. Click the  link below and find the image of the video World of Light. You might have to use the > arrow to scroll to this image:

 

Also at this link is May’s “A Live Reading” of her unpublished poems in 1987, a poetry reading in Los Angeles. Sarton reads  eloquently and talks about herself at this stage of life. Lovely insights.

http://www.youtube.com/@wildwestwomenfilms

 

Rocky Mountain Women’s Film Review: “Enter the world of poet and novelist May Sarton on this one-of-a-kind documentary film – a world of solitude and passion that we are privileged to see and hear first-hand. Filmed with her full cooperation, World of Light is narrated by Sarton herself, offering a complete picture of her life as a woman writer outside the mainstream. World of Light documents May Sarton in the final period of her long career, contemplating her work, her loves, and her influence on other women. In her own words you will hear May Sarton reflect on solitude (“my last great love”), how a writer can persist, the impact and unforeseen popularity of her journals, why she started to write (“to discover my feelings”), and more.”

Letterbox Reviews: “Filmed on location on the coast of Maine, follows this New England poetess and novelist through her day’s activities as she examines her life and works. Sarton discusses her creative process, her experiences and views on solitude, aging, the woman writer, discipline, integrity, and relationships. She also reads from her poetry and novels.”

 

 

 

More of May Sarton Below:

https://paulacappa.wordpress.com/2021/05/17/author-of-the-week-may-sarton-may-17/

https://paulacappa.wordpress.com/2022/04/04/book-moments-may-sarton/

https://paulacappa.wordpress.com/2022/04/07/book-moments-two-may-sarton/

https://paulacappa.wordpress.com/2022/04/19/book-moments-three-may-sarton/

https://paulacappa.wordpress.com/2022/05/03/book-moments-four-may-sarton/

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May Sarton, An End of Summer Moment, 2023

Remembering May Sarton, 2023

I am taking this end-of-summer moment to post a gift  for all the May Sarton fans and followers, and for those who desire to discover this mystical writer, a woman who still gains readers long after her death in July of 1995 (Original name Eleanore Marie Sarton, born May 3, 1912, Wondelgem, Belgium—died July 16, 1995, York, Maine).

As I am an avid reader of all May’s journals, essays, poetry, and fiction, I share this YouTube video of “Writing in the Upward Years” (1988), 30 minutes. She speaks to writing, age, and the mystical aspects of life. Absolutely inspiring!

May is an American poet, novelist, and essayist whose works were informed by themes of love, mind-body conflict, creativity, lesbianism, and the trials of age and illness.

 

 

She reads her most famous poem in this video, an astonishing moment that continues to touch me no matter how many times I listen.

Gestalt at Sixty by May Sarton

For ten years I have been rooted in these hills,
The changing light on landlocked lakes,
For ten years have called a mountain, friend,
Have been nourished by plants, still waters,
Trees in their seasons,
Have fought in this quiet place
For my self.

I can tell you that first winter
I heard the trees groan.
I heard the fierce lament
As if they were on the rack under the wind.
I too have groaned here,
Wept the wild winter tears.
I can tell you that solitude
Is not all exaltation, inner peace
Where the soul breathes and work can be done.
Solitude exposes the nerve,
Raises the ghosts.
The past, never at rest, flows through it.

Who wakes in a house alone
Wakes to moments of panic.
(Will the roof fall in?
Shall I died today?)
Who wakes in a house alone
Wakes to inertia sometimes,
To fits of weeping for no reason.
Solitude swells the inner space
Like a balloon.
We are wafted hither and thither
On the air currents.
How to land it?

I worked out anguish in a garden.
Without the flowers,
The shadow of trees on snow, their punctuation,
I might not have survived.
I came here to create a world
As strong, renewable, fertile. As the world of nature all around me —
Learned to clear myself as I have cleared the pasture,
Learned to wait,
Learned that change is always in the making
(Inner and outer) if one can be patient,
Learned to trust myself.

The house is receptacle of a hundred currents
Letters pour in,
Rumor of the human ocean, never at rest,
Never still….
Sometimes it deafens and numbs me.

I did not come here for society
In these years
When every meeting is collision,
The impact huge,
The reverberations slow to die down.
Yet what I have done here
I have not done alone,
Inhabited by a rich past of lives,
Inhabited also by the great dead,
By music, poetry —
Yeats, Valery stalk through this house.
No day passes without a visitation —
Rilke, Mozart.
I am always a lover here,
Seized and shaken by love.

Lovers and friends
I come to you starved
For all you have to give,
Nourished by the food of solitude,
A good instrument for all you have to tell me,
For all I have to tell you.
We talk of first and last things,
Listen to music together,
Climb the long hill to the cemetery
In autumn,
Take another road in spring
Toward newborn lambs,

No one comes to this house
Who is not changed.
I meet no one here who does not change me.

How rich and long the hours become,
How brief the years,
In this house of gathering,
This life about to enter its seventh decade.

I live like a baby
Who bursts into laughter
As a sunbeam on the wall,
Or like a very old woman
Entranced by the prick of starts
Through the leaves.

And now, as the fruit gathers
All the riches of summer
Into its compact world,
I feel richer than ever before,
And breathe a larger air,

I am not ready to die,
But I am learning to trust death
As 1 have trusted life.
I am moving
Toward a new freedom
Born of detachment,
And a sweeter grace —
Learning to let go.

I am not ready to die,
But as I approach sixty
I turn my face toward the sea.
I shall go where tides replace time,
Where my world will open to a far horizon.

Over the floating, never-still flux and change.
I shall go with the changes,
I shall look far out over golden grasses
And blue waters….

There are no farewells.

Praise God for His mercies,
For His austere demands,
For His light
And for His darkness.

 

https://poets.org/poet/may-sarton

 

 

Below are more posts here at Reading Fiction Blog on May Sarton.

In May’s words, “Begin here.”

Book Moments, May Sarton, April 4, 2022

Book Moments Two, May Sarton, April 7, 2022

Book Moments Three, May Sarton, April 19, 2022

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Author of the Week, Rainer Maria Rilke, April 10

AUTHOR OF THE WEEK,  April 10, 2023    National Poetry Month

Rainer Maria Rilke

(Austrian Poet and Novelist)

 

“Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.”  Letters to a Young Poet.

“I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.”

“If we surrendered to earth’s intelligence, we could rise up rooted, like trees.”  Book of Hours: “Love Poems to God.”

“Think… of the world you carry within you.”

“God speaks to each of us as he makes us, then walks with us silently out of the night.”  Book of Hours: “Love Poems to God.”

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 – 1926) is well known for his rich and lyrical poetry that arouses visual imagery.  He is still one of the best selling poets in the United States. His first published work  was in 1895, a volume of poetry Life and Songs. He wrote several collections of poetry, volumes of correspondence, and one novel—semi-autobiographical  The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge.  He is most famous for his ten letters published posthumously, Letters to a Young Poet.

 

IN APRIL

Again the woods are odorous, the lark
Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray
That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark,
Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.

After long rainy afternoons an hour
Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings
Them at the windows in a radiant shower,
And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.

Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep
By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies;
And cradled in the branches, hidden deep
In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.

 

Many of Rilke’s poems are in the public domain. Nature and silence are recurring themes. It was said that he experienced writer’s block for eight years. In his fifty-one years, he wrote over 400 poems.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

While spring is here, sunshine leaning towards us every day, one of Rilke’s books stands out as the quintessential book of poems for April’s National Poetry Month: Roses. On Amazon.com.

 

Roses is translated by David Need and illustrated in pen-and-ink drawings by Clare Johnson, published by Horse & Buggy Press. I discovered this book when researching Rilke for my novel Draakensky, A Supernatural Tale of Magick and Romance (release planned in 2024). Rilke is an off-stage character in this mystery about a young sketch artist who illustrates Rilke’s poetry while she lives on a haunted estate in New York.

To learn more about Roses, visit Numéro Cinq:

http://numerocinqmagazine.com/2014/12/03/from-roses-by-rainer-maria-rilke-translated-by-david-need/

 

 

PODCAST on Rilke: The Book of Images and more.

The rose—a symbol of love, beauty, and devotion in Rilke’s writings—ironically caused the onset of his illness that took his life so suddenly.

Rilke died on December 29, 1926.

 

Before his death, Rilke  wrote his own epitaph to be written on his gravestone.

He is buried in the Raron, Switzerland churchyard.

The simple headstone is surrounded by a short-walled rose garden.

 

Epitaph: Translation by Arthur Freeman:

“Rose, oh pure contradiction. Passion,

sleep of no one to exist under so many lids.”

For more about Rilke and his death, visit the Rilke Poetry website:

https://rilkepoetry.com/

The meaning of this epitaph is puzzling. If you have an interpretation, please post in the comments below. Celebrating National Poetry Month is an opportunity to express our love of words, literature, and honor poets and their craft. Please join me in recognizing Rainer Maria Rilke by sharing your thoughts!

 

 

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