Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

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Written by Nurel Javissyarqi
Translated by Agus B. Harianto

Roses,
ah merely denial,
desire to unsleeping
behind so many Eyelids
(on the tombstone of Rilke, December 4, 1875- December 29, 1926).

History of desire of body’s history has existed since in the mother's pregnancy, even long before the creation of the earth. Thus the poet can not escape from his destiny, be exist like the transition of period, running and there is no able to avoid. And superior beings still struggling to deal with the space-time of experiments; sabotaging, tantrums of color of words, any music absorbs and ambushed. Way of life alike a flat of steel or stones are wrapped by springs, fog swept hill, out of sensory bond. Constellations pervasive shadow of the soul, a real poet is darker than burning flesh. All from unpredicted though by focusing, which is carried no escape from the bars of history.

Chosen man does not a luster of fad, there are sharp capes of blade, blood streaming down on the knife, the dew of loneliness, poor handsomeness is outlined. Just sharpened the heart of suspicious eyes by changing of the time and the displacement of location, prepare a roll of matted hair miserable. Then the other poets picked its grapes, took the ocean of soul to suck beauty of soul. Did not reduce His determination on earth, the good lucks are forgotten, wistful eyes tired to catch all.

To me, Rilke was a tough boy stared at the way life, have not wavered despite his poems were limited published. Like the prince had understood the story of his kingdom, and driven up his people to certain place, the artists. Shoulder was harder than the calculation, the sun peeled the skin and much understood insistent learning. Loyalty to carry the burden of words, made him to be got defamation, expulsion, more miserable than a lost child, and his regret was written so beautifully.

Regret
Rainer Maria Rilke

All became shadow
and mortal.
I believe, the stars,
flickering up there,
had dead for millions years ago.
I'm sure, in the boat,
passing in roaring,
I heard the eerie echoes of speech.
Inside the house, the clock
stopped ticking ...
In which house? ...
I wanted to step out of the cubicle of
my heart and swept under the sky.
I want to pray.
And from the millions of extinguished stars
there remains one.
I believed, I understood,
Which stars are
stay shining, --
which at the end of the tail light
seems like an all-white town ... **

The poet was living in constant silliness, he was carrying as full the awareness of sun and moon, a moment suspended the burden to the earth, out of circulation of its precision, the period beyond the average time. Profiter of life essence of aiming eyeballs, he saw marbles colliding out of galaxies of previous reasoning. Far beyond the awareness of the age, because flapped the wings to the end of the unsigned yet.

The beauty of timeless roses, seethed blood bloom with the fragrance of life, the meaning of searcher had to pass through a narrow hole of hard shaft to duck and to be hit. Sometimes the breaths were out of control and almost swallowed by death many times which focused to commit suicide. He felt that it didn’t temptation, but maturity of regret beyond the limits of broken hearts atmosphere. Broken wing flied over the consciousness, determined the value of the view or the execution must be done, before the other hand had seized what had confirmed.

The warm body of turbulent increasingly mature of fruits is ready to be picked at any season to get. This is the heart gives meaning, pulse produces the puzzle, and the air of day and night doesn’t stop to search. Running with feet sticking thorns, stones of flame, constant disaster and caught by the cold cut the bones, breaking the skeleton. The joints were possessed by the rain of blasphemy; the swamp without moon, just a flash of lightning insisted the beauty of lotus. Real soul; genuine poets are never die, even if there are, his resting place is not recognizable.

I feel the poet of the curse of the prophets, cursed to be half-mad creature on the verge of death, because believe the verses have to be told from insanity, the reflection of color changes hypnotized firmament. The soul untouched by the material enters the world of secret, for the one had promised to be patient would get the grace. The one does not mortgage his body, his soul will be leveled up, enters the vortex to leave the shadows. The sweet words are tasted in the inner of pain, and when he smiled will lose the awareness.

The hard fate was not denied (accepted), a step back would destroy the struggling, if went forward without provisions was meaningless. Because it was the time to patent a layer of the soul, a level of the earth of resigned matured by the rainy season of dry on consideration. Here the ability to breathe was arable, all the best of prejudice was embed on the sky of consciousness. Passed through the mistaken tensed of grace period, which is timeless to present, such as climber recognizes wind direction, will not get lost in the self.

BAUDELAIRE
for Anita Forrer/ April, 14, 1921

Only a poet the world is united,
scattered far apart.
Immeasurable beauty he expressed,
despite for him ordeal, he still celebrate,
continuously clear debris:
and even destruction of all.***

Ulrike Draesner said: "If poetry were on-the-never-seen, then what is-the unseen? For Rilke, would answer: it is not about thing, but an attitude and a behavior. He called it "awe." Not the kind of awe as the philosopher to understand. Poetry is amazement at the symbols. Walking in front, pensive, and to live in symbols. "

Here, the tough destiny of poet’s pity, the curse did not stop to subdue him, especially when he reaches the amazement. The feelings to the horizon of reasoning at the twilight of his inner are carried away by the beauty of doubt. The strange senseless is presented, mysterious vacuum, compressed by the solid and heavy pain. Continue to run the inspiration only for perpetuate the free words, the fate of unknown to be futile. Or here, the world reached its climax; do not stop to be sheltered by the loneliness of longing, though without a glass kohwa.

Rilke is the symbol of manhood, anything in front of him was hit alike he had the steel legs. The fog parted, sweet smile appeared, and the drops of dew were seen by the heart beyond the mind. Mystery covered surrounding the fact that was hugged by earnestness. It won’t ever be forgotten by the kissing that already sabotaged by the uncontrollably longing. The face could not be forgotten, remembered the smile transformed the shadows of memory, on every day and night the sun and the moon are following. Rilke, your star is still there and exists.

Anggawi Dudy *,**,***) translation, from the book of Rilke poems, Henk Publica.
Which in re-translation into English is more less like above.