Night is Upon Us – Day 5.4.2018

First I found a poem by Rilke and written in German. I could read one word “Nacht” which I took to be night.  I followed this with a photo I took overlooking Wellington Harbour some years back. Then I went on to try and make a poem somehow. The only other word I got was “land”. And occasionally I thought I saw the word “and”.  I went for the general shape of the poem after that.  I have now read the translation which is very, very different. I think if Rilke might have been less of a joyous party goer than I made out.

Night is Upon Us

 

My window faces the world,

it is dark over the land –

as the evening comes

bringing soft melody

that soon resonates.

 

There my favourite café,

across the harbour it waits;

and we  will go there by ferry,

to join in song with our friends.

Soft moon glowing …

I fall

under the spell of the moonglow.

I will write poems,

melancholy  songs of the harbour,

poems of nights deep bliss.

I will tell of the beautiful view,

and how gently it set the mood

for joyous and ongoing celebrations

that will last

the long hours

and never end…

 

Benita H. Kape © 5.4.2018

 

Am Rande der Nacht

Meine Stube und diese Weite,
wach über nachtendem Land –
ist Eines. Ich bin eine Saite,
über rauschende breite
Resonanzen gespannt.

Die Dinge sind Geigenlieber,
von murrendem Dunkel voll;
drin träumt das Weinen der Weiber,
drin rührt sich im Schlafe der Groll
ganzer Geschlechter …
Ich soll
silbern erzittern: dann wird
Alles unter mir leben,
und was in den Dingen irrt,
wird nach dem Lichte streben,
das von meinem tanzenden Tone,
um welchen der Himmel wellt,
durch schmale, schmachtende Spalten
in die alten
Abgründe ohne
Ende fällt …
*

Rilke

 

 

 

 

 

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Rhapsody of Courage

Rhapsody for Courage

to: Glenys

 .

And as I sat reading Billy Collins

all through this beautiful autumn morning,

I listened first to the lawnmower next door

struggling through an overgrown lawn.

And as I did so the clouds, which have

only just come on the scene, scudded by.

I was, though, in the middle of thinking

about this when disturbed by the cat,

who, as she washed,  did so

with a particularly raspy sound and shifted

a little with the sun; a sound I may not have

heard had the mover not ceased its strange music.

.

The cloud movement increased and I thought

about the music of the morning. How the music

of clouds scudding was so pure, so high above me

and yet so beautiful as to make something within

me sing. And now the cat who may or may not

be aware of this has slipped further into sleep;

the sky now a total blue and silence give me

its beauty, its own very special sound. And the

cat stretches one lone paw toward that shifting

span of sunlight.

.

The cat is still sleeping, the sun has shifted into

a corner of the room and begins an afternoon ascent

up the wall when the phone goes; a sibling with news.

.

And what would be the music in that you may ask (as

we see you have come back to the poem:)  though yes

I did leave the poem for a long conversation. I left off

reading Billy and carefully, sadly wrote the final stanzas.

.

Our youngest sister begins her radiation treatment today,

another is having a hip operation. So, I come back for both,

but especially for the sister who is in and out of chemo or

radiation treatments saying, every time;  “No long faces here.”

 

That’s so god-damn difficult because the music of the morning

is now so different and yet she makes it so necessary to write on

into the late noon with No Long Faces Here and she can, and she

does make this sound both musical and courageous. This is the music

I now hear. A rhapsody of courage. Then on request, No More Visitors.

And this is when silence is at it’s most strange. But for you

No Long Faces.

 .

Benita H. Kape © 4.5.2017