Monday, October 10. 2005
Posted by Ancient of Days in Poetry
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Something in one of the recent "Hacking" episodes brought this to my mind. It's a translation from the German, so if it doesn't exactly match your idea of poetry (*cough* Johnny Elbows *cough*), cut it some slack.
This is the Creature, by Ranier Maria Rilke
This is the creature there never has been.
They never knew it, and yet, none-the-less,
they loved the way it moved; its supleness,
its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.
Not there, because they loved it, it behaved
as though it were. They always left some space
and in that clear, unpeopled space they saved
it lightly reared its head, with scarce a trace
of not being there. They fed it, not with corn,
but with the possibility of being. And that was able to confer
such strength, its brow put forth a horn - one horn.
Whitely, it stole up to a maid to Be within the silver mirror, and in her.
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