This was the first poem I'd ever read by this great poet/prophet, and it opened so much profound depth in the apprehension of "reality" and true art, and even provides glimpses of Advaita Vedanta, the non-dual understanding that teaches that nothing is ever "lost," that there are no "separate selves" as we imagine them to be. Also, it hints at the Buddhist "interbeing" as taught by luminaries like Thich Nhat Hanh. And that last statement, "You must change your life." so poignant; of course life will never be the same after recognitions like what the poem suggests! Thanks for publishing this today, and Stephen Mitchell's are my top favorite translations of Rilke. <3
I've read this poem dozens of times, but suddenly this morning was struck by its crystal clarity. No head, only torso-->thus, "no place that does not see you."
I think about this poem every day of my humdrum life, especially the final line. My story "Cool City," published by One Story several years ago, came to life after several readings of the Rilke poem.
This was the first poem I'd ever read by this great poet/prophet, and it opened so much profound depth in the apprehension of "reality" and true art, and even provides glimpses of Advaita Vedanta, the non-dual understanding that teaches that nothing is ever "lost," that there are no "separate selves" as we imagine them to be. Also, it hints at the Buddhist "interbeing" as taught by luminaries like Thich Nhat Hanh. And that last statement, "You must change your life." so poignant; of course life will never be the same after recognitions like what the poem suggests! Thanks for publishing this today, and Stephen Mitchell's are my top favorite translations of Rilke. <3
I've read this poem dozens of times, but suddenly this morning was struck by its crystal clarity. No head, only torso-->thus, "no place that does not see you."
Yet another amazing Friday translation. i especially love the turn at the end
I think about this poem every day of my humdrum life, especially the final line. My story "Cool City," published by One Story several years ago, came to life after several readings of the Rilke poem.
ARCHAIC TORSO OF APOLLO
I could have told him off.
I could have called him a relic
of a forgotten past, a useless,
limbless rock. I could have listed
my excuses: old age, arthritis,
sciatica. But he wouldn’t blink.
How could he? He would just go
on holding the light. The white
marble would just go on gleaming
in the dark corner like a cold
truth. I could have shouted
until my throat was dry. Then
I could have gazed at his chest.
Still perfect. Still radiant. Then
I could have put my coat back
on and walked out into the rain.