Poetry.
Why Bodhidharma Went to Motel 6
“Where is your home?” the interviewer asked him.
“Here.”
“No, no,” the interviewer said, thinking it a problem of translation,
“When you are where you actually live?”
Now it was his turn to think, Perhaps the translation?
— Jane Hirshfield *
When was the last time you started an inter-office memo with a Shakespeare quote? How often do you read a poem to the team in an all-hands meeting? Do you keep your favorite poetry collection in your desk drawer? This is hard-core business, not some fluff. We can afford to spend time on reading poems to each other. What if you can’t afford to not read poems?
Some years ago I added a quote – I believe it was from the Scottish Play – or was it from Plato’s Phaedrus? – at the beginning of a product marketing document for a digital magazine software.
I got some weird looks when I presented the document. Until people realized that the quote was spot-on, invited to think beyond the inevitable feature-creep and the missed deadlines of the MVP (the minimum viable product that was neither minimal nor viable).
Try it and you shall see what happens…
Taking the next step
More than two years we spent in a state of suspension, a fearful watching hibernation. We need to crawl out from under our blanket, our stone, out of hiding, and get ready to continue on our path. William Stafford talks about the path in his poem The Way It Is here.
Read poetry. Here are some, and I will recommend some volumes in German and English.
Der Schauende
Ich sehe den Bäumen die Stürme an,
die aus laugewordenen Tagen
an meine ängstlichen Fenster schlagen,
und höre die Fernen Dinge sagen,
die ich nicht ohne Freund ertragen,
nicht ohne Schwester lieben kann.
Da geht der Sturm, ein Umgestalter,
geht durch den Wald und durch die Zeit,
und alles ist wie ohne Alter:
die Landschaft, wie ein Vers im Psalter,
ist Ernst und Wucht und Ewigkeit.
Wie ist das klein, womit wir ringen,
was mit uns ringt, wie ist das groß;
ließen wir, ähnlicher den Dingen,
uns so vom großen Sturm bezwingen, -
wir würden weit und namenlos.
Was wir besiegen, ist das Kleine,
und der Erfolg selbst macht uns klein.
Das Ewige und Ungemeine
will nicht von uns gebogen sein.
Das ist der Engel, der den Ringern
des Alten Testaments erschien:
wenn seiner Widersacher Sehnen
im Kampfe sich metallen dehnen,
fühlt er sie unter seinen Fingern
wie Saiten tiefer Melodien.
Wen dieser Engel überwand,
welcher so oft auf Kampf verzichtet,
der geht gerecht und aufgerichtet
und groß aus jener harten Hand,
die sich, wie formend, an ihn schmiegte.
Die Siege laden ihn nicht ein.
Sein Wachstum ist: der Tiefbesiegte
von immer Größerem zu sein.
Rainer Maria Rilke: Das Buch der Bilder
The Beholder
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far-off fields say things
I can't bear without a friend,
I can't love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time,
and the world looks as if it had no age:
the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,
is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights with us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it's with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestlers' sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by the Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.
A Translation from German by Robert Bly.
The reading by Oskar Werner is so amazing that I decided to add the link - just disregard the distorted images added by a misguided soul.
Robert Bly was an authority in Rilke translation, and yet he got it wrong - we don’t win with small things - we defeat the small, and this success makes us small - the Eternal and wholesome (=non-vulgar) does not want to be bent by us. […] - not beaten by the Angel - overcome; he did not decline the fight. He renounced, waived it. [big difference] - not proud but righteous… Bly had to rely on others in his work, as he did not speak German.
FALL • Autumn • HERBST
Autumn brings both, successful completion and with it decay and death. And both have in them the power of renewal. With Halloween, Thanksgiving, Black Friday, Hanukkah, and Christmas we tend to overlook the quiet moments that fall offers. Like pumpkins and candy defining a time that tries to quiet down, it proved to be difficult to find poems that balance the power and the abandonment of fall. And as much as I am never sure of the English translations of Rilke, here are two and finally a sonnet from the Bard. End beyond that – Celan.
Herbsttag
Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.
Befiehl den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gieb ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Paris, 21. September 1902
Das Buch der Bilder
Autumn Day
Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.
Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;|
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no home, will never build one now.
Whoever is alone will find himself alone for long
will stay awake and read and write long letters,
and wander the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.
Translation by Stephen Mitchell, with some adaptation of the third verse.
“The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke" (Random House)
Herbst
Die Blätter fallen, fallen wie von weit,
als welkten in den Himmeln ferne Gärten;
sie fallen mit verneinender Gebärde.
Und in den Nächten fällt die schwere Erde
aus allen Sternen in die Einsamkeit.
Wir alle fallen. Diese Hand da fällt.
Und sieh dir andre an: es ist in allen.
Und doch ist Einer, welcher dieses Fallen
unendlich sanft in seinen Händen hält
Rainer Maria Rilke, Paris, 11. September 1902
Autumn
The leaves are falling, falling as from far
as if withered in the distant gardens of heaven;
They’re falling with a gesture that waves “no”.
And in the nights the heavy Earth
falls from all the stars into solitude
We all are falling. This hand falls, as it extends.
And take a look at others. It's in them all.
And yet there's One, holding this fall
With endless gentleness in both his hands.
(adapted from multiple translations)
Talglicht
Die Mönche mit haarigen Fingern schlugen das Buch auf: September.
Jason wirft nun mit Schnee nach der aufgegangenen Saat.
Ein Halsband aus Händen gab dir der Wald, so schreitest du tot übers Seil.
Ein dunkleres Blau wird zuteil deinem Haar, und ich rede von Liebe.
Muscheln red ich und leichtes Gewölk, und ein Boot knospt im Regen.
Ein kleiner Hengst jagt über die blätternden Finger –
Schwarz springt das Tor auf, ich singe:
Wie lebten wir hier?
Paul Celan: Mohn und Gedächtnis
Tallow Light
The monks with hairy fingers opened the book: September.
Now Jason pelts with snow the newly sprouting grain.
The forest gave you a necklace of hands. So dead you walk the rope.
To your hair a darker blue is imparted; I speak of love.
Shells I speak and light clouds, and a boat buds in the rain.
A little stallion gallops across the leafing fingers--
Black the gate leaps open, I sing:
How did we live here?
(trans. by Michael Hamburger)
Sonnet 73
That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang;
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self that seals up all in rest;
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by;
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
William Shakespeare: Sonnet 73
thank you Jane for permission to reprint the poem