of Rainer Maria Rilke's "Portrait of My Father as a Young Man"
In the eyes: dream. The brow as if it could feel
something far off. Around the lips, a great
freshness---seductive, though there is no smile.
Under the rows of ornamental braid
on the slim Imperial officer's uniform:
the saber's basket-hilt. Both hands stay
folded upon it, going nowhere, calm
and now almost invisible, as if they
were the first to grasp the distance and dissolve.
And all the rest so curtained with itself,
so cloudy, that I cannot understand
this figure as it fades into the background----.
Oh quickly disappearing photograph
in my more slowly disappearing hand.
My Improv':
In the open smile: carefree. The tongue as if it could taste
the easiness of air. Around the eyes, an orchestrated ripple
of laughter---innocence, though there are hints of a man.
Under the lithe brown layers of hair, a small front pocket
hides. Inside a poorly folded note, wrinkled from multiple
reads: desperate she smells the curves of his quill. He swore
by old-fashioned inventions and its philosophies on women.
Delicately, she hooks a hand over her shoulder and presses
the letter against her chest, a last effort to transcribe what's lost.
No comments:
Post a Comment