#trunk - Hello Poetry

Our initials chiselled, With a crown cork bottle cap, Into the trunk of our favourite tree, Will the world wonder in time to come, Whatever happened to you and me?

0

Jun 7, 2019

Jun 7, 2019 at 6:47 PM UTC

annh

Chiselled

Our initials chiselled, With a crown cork bottle cap, Into the trunk of our favourite tree, Will the world wonder in time to come, Whatever happened to you and me?

5

Archaischer Torso Apollos (“Archaic Torso of Apollo”) by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We cannot know the beheaded god nor his eyes’ forfeited visions. But still the figure’s trunk glows with the strange vitality of a lamp lit from within, while his composed will emanates dynamism. Otherwise the firmly muscled abdomen could not beguile us, nor the centering ***** make us smile at the thought of their generative animus. Otherwise the stone might seem deficient, unworthy of the broad shoulders, of the groin projecting procreation’s triangular spearhead upwards, unworthy of the living impulse blazing wildly within like an inchoate star—demanding our belief. You must change your life. Keywords/Tags: German, translation, sonnet, Rainer Maria Rilke, god, Apollo, vision, visions, trunk, abdomen, body, torso, muscle, muscles, muscular, eyes, vision, visions, vitality, will, lamp, light, dynamic, dynamism, ***** groin, stone, phallus, **** ***** animus, star, change, life This is my translation of the first of Rilke’s Duino Elegies. Rilke began the first Duino Elegy in 1912, as a guest of Princess Marie von Thurn und Taxis, at Duino Castle, near Trieste on the Adriatic Sea. First Elegy by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Who, if I objected, would hear me among the angelic orders? For if the least One pressed me intimately against its breast, I would be lost in its infinite Immensity! Because beauty, which we mortals can barely endure, is the beginning of terror; we stand awed when it benignly declines to annihilate us. Every Angel is terrifying! And so I restrain myself, swallowing the sound of my pitiful sobbing. For whom may we turn to, in our desire? Not to Angels, nor to men, and already the sentient animals are aware that we are all aliens in this metaphorical existence. Perhaps some tree still stands on a hillside, which we can study with our ordinary vision. Perhaps the commonplace street still remains amid man’s fealty to materiality— the concrete items that never destabilize. Oh, and of course there is the night: her dark currents caress our faces ... But whom, then, do we live for? That longed-for but mildly disappointing presence the lonely heart so desperately desires? Is life any less difficult for lovers? They only use each other to avoid their appointed fates! How can you fail to comprehend? Fling your arms’ emptiness into this space we occupy and inhale: may birds fill the expanded air with more intimate flying! Yes, the springtime still requires you. Perpetually a star waits for you to recognize it. A wave recedes toward you from the distant past, or as you walk beneath an open window, a violin yields virginally to your ears. All this was preordained. But how can you incorporate it? ... Weren't you always distracted by expectations, as if every event presaged some new beloved? (Where can you harbor, when all these enormous strange thoughts surging within you keep you up all night, restlessly rising and falling?) When you are full of yearning, sing of loving women, because their passions are finite; sing of forsaken women (and how you almost envy them) because they could love you more purely than the ones you left gratified. Resume the unattainable exaltation; remember: the hero survives; even his demise was merely a stepping stone toward his latest rebirth. But spent and exhausted Nature withdraws lovers back into herself, as if lacking the energy to recreate them. Have you remembered Gaspara Stampa with sufficient focus— how any abandoned girl might be inspired by her fierce example and might ask herself, "How can I be like her?" Shouldn't these ancient sufferings become fruitful for us? Shouldn’t we free ourselves from the beloved, quivering, as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension, so that in the snap of release it soars beyond itself? For there is nowhere else where we can remain. Voices! Voices! Listen, heart, as levitating saints once listened, until the elevating call soared them heavenward; and yet they continued kneeling, unaware, so complete was their concentration. Not that you could endure God's voice—far from it! But heed the wind’s voice and the ceaseless formless message of silence: It murmurs now of the martyred young. Whenever you attended a church in Naples or Rome, didn't they come quietly to address you? And didn’t an exalted inscription impress its mission upon you recently, on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa? What they require of me is that I gently remove any appearance of injustice— which at times slightly hinders their souls from advancing. Of course, it is endlessly strange to no longer inhabit the earth; to relinquish customs one barely had the time to acquire; not to see in roses and other tokens a hopeful human future; no longer to be oneself, cradled in infinitely caring hands; to set aside even one's own name, forgotten as easily as a child’s broken plaything. How strange to no longer desire one's desires! How strange to see meanings no longer cohere, drifting off into space. Dying is difficult and requires retrieval before one can gradually decipher eternity. The living all err in believing the too-sharp distinctions they create themselves. Angels (men say) don't know whether they move among the living or the dead. The eternal current merges all ages in its maelstrom until the voices of both realms are drowned out in its thunderous roar. In the end, the early-departed no longer need us: they are weaned gently from earth's agonies and ecstasies, as children outgrow their mothers’ ******* But we, who need such immense mysteries, and for whom grief is so often the source of our spirit's progress— how can we exist without them? Is the legend of the lament for Linos meaningless— the daring first notes of the song pierce our apathy; then, in the interlude, when the youth, lovely as a god, has suddenly departed forever, we experience the emptiness of the Void for the first time— that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and aids us? Keywords/Tags: Rilke, elegy, elegies, angels, beauty, terror, terrifying, desire, vision, reality, heart, love, lovers, beloved, rose, saints, spirits, souls, ghosts, voices, torso, Apollo, Rodin, panther, autumn, beggar

0

Feb 25, 2020

Feb 25, 2020 at 7:10 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Rainer Maria Rilke "Archaic Torso of Apollo" translation

Archaischer Torso Apollos (“Archaic Torso of Apollo”) by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We cannot know the beheaded god nor his eyes’ forfeited visions. But still the figure’s trunk glows with the strange vitality of a lamp lit from within, while his composed will emanates dynamism. Otherwise the firmly muscled abdomen could not beguile us, nor the centering ***** make us smile at the thought of their generative animus. Otherwise the stone might seem deficient, unworthy of the broad shoulders, of the groin projecting procreation’s triangular spearhead upwards, unworthy of the living impulse blazing wildly within like an inchoate star—demanding our belief. You must change your life. Keywords/Tags: German, translation, sonnet, Rainer Maria Rilke, god, Apollo, vision, visions, trunk, abdomen, body, torso, muscle, muscles, muscular, eyes, vision, visions, vitality, will, lamp, light, dynamic, dynamism, ***** groin, stone, phallus, **** ***** animus, star, change, life This is my translation of the first of Rilke’s Duino Elegies. Rilke began the first Duino Elegy in 1912, as a guest of Princess Marie von Thurn und Taxis, at Duino Castle, near Trieste on the Adriatic Sea. First Elegy by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Who, if I objected, would hear me among the angelic orders? For if the least One pressed me intimately against its breast, I would be lost in its infinite Immensity! Because beauty, which we mortals can barely endure, is the beginning of terror; we stand awed when it benignly declines to annihilate us. Every Angel is terrifying! And so I restrain myself, swallowing the sound of my pitiful sobbing. For whom may we turn to, in our desire? Not to Angels, nor to men, and already the sentient animals are aware that we are all aliens in this metaphorical existence. Perhaps some tree still stands on a hillside, which we can study with our ordinary vision. Perhaps the commonplace street still remains amid man’s fealty to materiality— the concrete items that never destabilize. Oh, and of course there is the night: her dark currents caress our faces ... But whom, then, do we live for? That longed-for but mildly disappointing presence the lonely heart so desperately desires? Is life any less difficult for lovers? They only use each other to avoid their appointed fates! How can you fail to comprehend? Fling your arms’ emptiness into this space we occupy and inhale: may birds fill the expanded air with more intimate flying! Yes, the springtime still requires you. Perpetually a star waits for you to recognize it. A wave recedes toward you from the distant past, or as you walk beneath an open window, a violin yields virginally to your ears. All this was preordained. But how can you incorporate it? ... Weren't you always distracted by expectations, as if every event presaged some new beloved? (Where can you harbor, when all these enormous strange thoughts surging within you keep you up all night, restlessly rising and falling?) When you are full of yearning, sing of loving women, because their passions are finite; sing of forsaken women (and how you almost envy them) because they could love you more purely than the ones you left gratified. Resume the unattainable exaltation; remember: the hero survives; even his demise was merely a stepping stone toward his latest rebirth. But spent and exhausted Nature withdraws lovers back into herself, as if lacking the energy to recreate them. Have you remembered Gaspara Stampa with sufficient focus— how any abandoned girl might be inspired by her fierce example and might ask herself, "How can I be like her?" Shouldn't these ancient sufferings become fruitful for us? Shouldn’t we free ourselves from the beloved, quivering, as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension, so that in the snap of release it soars beyond itself? For there is nowhere else where we can remain. Voices! Voices! Listen, heart, as levitating saints once listened, until the elevating call soared them heavenward; and yet they continued kneeling, unaware, so complete was their concentration. Not that you could endure God's voice—far from it! But heed the wind’s voice and the ceaseless formless message of silence: It murmurs now of the martyred young. Whenever you attended a church in Naples or Rome, didn't they come quietly to address you? And didn’t an exalted inscription impress its mission upon you recently, on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa? What they require of me is that I gently remove any appearance of injustice— which at times slightly hinders their souls from advancing. Of course, it is endlessly strange to no longer inhabit the earth; to relinquish customs one barely had the time to acquire; not to see in roses and other tokens a hopeful human future; no longer to be oneself, cradled in infinitely caring hands; to set aside even one's own name, forgotten as easily as a child’s broken plaything. How strange to no longer desire one's desires! How strange to see meanings no longer cohere, drifting off into space. Dying is difficult and requires retrieval before one can gradually decipher eternity. The living all err in believing the too-sharp distinctions they create themselves. Angels (men say) don't know whether they move among the living or the dead. The eternal current merges all ages in its maelstrom until the voices of both realms are drowned out in its thunderous roar. In the end, the early-departed no longer need us: they are weaned gently from earth's agonies and ecstasies, as children outgrow their mothers’ ******* But we, who need such immense mysteries, and for whom grief is so often the source of our spirit's progress— how can we exist without them? Is the legend of the lament for Linos meaningless— the daring first notes of the song pierce our apathy; then, in the interlude, when the youth, lovely as a god, has suddenly departed forever, we experience the emptiness of the Void for the first time— that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and aids us? Keywords/Tags: Rilke, elegy, elegies, angels, beauty, terror, terrifying, desire, vision, reality, heart, love, lovers, beloved, rose, saints, spirits, souls, ghosts, voices, torso, Apollo, Rodin, panther, autumn, beggar

104

All birds fly towards the north When the weather goes to be hot And fly towards the south When the cold spreads the wings And destroys all nests Except my birds They fly towards your heart Asking, screaming and shouting You are the worst spy When they meet your birds They sing a deathless song Making every poor land converted to be kind And the loosing mind returning his mind The old trunk gets strong Branches covering with colored and smart Roses The bees put their honey Making me taste it as your honey Love, that makes me in happy All the world gets funny And the birds dance with harmony The fishes swim in circles Making the water spreads atoms All over the world, that makes the flies tends Once the left and the right at once The important my birds get wide Not distance, but from my sight And I will whisper at your beauty ear I hate my birds as they go to yours That is obvious for all viewers But I wish to be with them by yours

0

Jun 6, 2019

Jun 6, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC

mohamad-taha-safan

The birds are imprisoned

All birds fly towards the north When the weather goes to be hot And fly towards the south When the cold spreads the wings And destroys all nests Except my birds They fly towards your heart Asking, screaming and shouting You are the worst spy When they meet your birds They sing a deathless song Making every poor land converted to be kind And the loosing mind returning his mind The old trunk gets strong Branches covering with colored and smart Roses The bees put their honey Making me taste it as your honey Love, that makes me in happy All the world gets funny And the birds dance with harmony The fishes swim in circles Making the water spreads atoms All over the world, that makes the flies tends Once the left and the right at once The important my birds get wide Not distance, but from my sight And I will whisper at your beauty ear I hate my birds as they go to yours That is obvious for all viewers But I wish to be with them by yours

31

There was a mother of goat She had three kinder She ordered them in hardness matter "Don't ever and ever open the door under Any raison Even one says she is your mother Wants to tell or has an order" They all agreed and she went for work There was a stranger Passed by the neighbor He was the greed bear He said to himself in whisper As he heard the kinder playing at higher Voice reflecting their cheer ,"these must be fat I will eat and lost my hunger" He watched the home three days with great hear He heard the mother telling that order After the mother went, he went there He knocked the door When one answered in clear He said, "I am your mother Open the door to have a fare" The first believe that The first forgot the order He opened the door at fast The bear was so hunger He took him out and ate at faster When the mother returned She found them had decreased When she was learnt She cried a lot On the following day, she ordered When she went, the greed bear came at fast The door was knocked He said, "I am your mother Open the door to have a fare" The second believe that The second forgot the order He opened the door at fast The bear was so hunger He took him out and ate at faster When the mother returned She found them had decreased When she asked She cried a lot On the following day, she ordered When she went the greed bear came at fast The door was knocked He said, "I am your mother Open the door to have a fare" The third did not believe that He ordered him to stretch his hand The bear forget the difference between his hand And the shape of the goat's hand The small goat said," Wait to get your hand kissed" He got a rope that was a strong And tided his with the stable rod The small kid called all neighbor While the bear screamed, mercy asked His mother was attended The bear was so hurt The mother stroke his trunk The swollen kinder were out They were so sorry They apologized to their omission They said," we learnt a lesson We will not forget forever" Obey your mother Obey your father They knew more, more They have more experience And know which intelligence is And which is carrying the worse

0

Apr 24, 2019

Apr 24, 2019 at 6:52 AM UTC

mohamad-taha-safan

The bear and the goat mother

There was a mother of goat She had three kinder She ordered them in hardness matter "Don't ever and ever open the door under Any raison Even one says she is your mother Wants to tell or has an order" They all agreed and she went for work There was a stranger Passed by the neighbor He was the greed bear He said to himself in whisper As he heard the kinder playing at higher Voice reflecting their cheer ,"these must be fat I will eat and lost my hunger" He watched the home three days with great hear He heard the mother telling that order After the mother went, he went there He knocked the door When one answered in clear He said, "I am your mother Open the door to have a fare" The first believe that The first forgot the order He opened the door at fast The bear was so hunger He took him out and ate at faster When the mother returned She found them had decreased When she was learnt She cried a lot On the following day, she ordered When she went, the greed bear came at fast The door was knocked He said, "I am your mother Open the door to have a fare" The second believe that The second forgot the order He opened the door at fast The bear was so hunger He took him out and ate at faster When the mother returned She found them had decreased When she asked She cried a lot On the following day, she ordered When she went the greed bear came at fast The door was knocked He said, "I am your mother Open the door to have a fare" The third did not believe that He ordered him to stretch his hand The bear forget the difference between his hand And the shape of the goat's hand The small goat said," Wait to get your hand kissed" He got a rope that was a strong And tided his with the stable rod The small kid called all neighbor While the bear screamed, mercy asked His mother was attended The bear was so hurt The mother stroke his trunk The swollen kinder were out They were so sorry They apologized to their omission They said," we learnt a lesson We will not forget forever" Obey your mother Obey your father They knew more, more They have more experience And know which intelligence is And which is carrying the worse

75

Well, there had been a tree All soft gray trunk, Crawling with snails after the rain, And carved with symbols of naïve love. You couldn’t climb the branches to the sky, But they could cradle you as you watched the world go by.

0

Jul 10, 2018

Jul 10, 2018 at 12:47 AM UTC

SilverLaughter

A Poem for a Tree

Well, there had been a tree All soft gray trunk, Crawling with snails after the rain, And carved with symbols of naïve love. You couldn’t climb the branches to the sky, But they could cradle you as you watched the world go by.

6

This is the story Of a Truck driver Who never stops driving Unwillingly he lives on the road Hoping he will find love in motion He wasn't looking to love someone else He is searching love for himself And at the same time He is running from feelings Running from the hurts He should be told He carries it on every road That head that tells him O! Truck driver navigate left away from tragic street For twenty four years And yet today He is still driving Hoping the road will teach him To love himself again

0

Mar 18, 2018

Mar 18, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC

KUVAR

Story of a Truck Driver

This is the story Of a Truck driver Who never stops driving Unwillingly he lives on the road Hoping he will find love in motion He wasn't looking to love someone else He is searching love for himself And at the same time He is running from feelings Running from the hurts He should be told He carries it on every road That head that tells him O! Truck driver navigate left away from tragic street For twenty four years And yet today He is still driving Hoping the road will teach him To love himself again

20

another tilting the site was there she knocked on my window after we kissed her there was an other tilting ? ... .. .

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 10:04 PM UTC

lashingstars

Untitled

another tilting the site was there she knocked on my window after we kissed her there was an other tilting ? ... .. .

16

that letter she never wrote me is still burning in her just let me read that letter ? ... .. .

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 7:31 PM UTC

lashingstars

Untitled

that letter she never wrote me is still burning in her just let me read that letter ? ... .. .

15

sometimes he feels like an girl just ask her as she appeals some times he feels ? ... .. .

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC

lashingstars

Untitled

sometimes he feels like an girl just ask her as she appeals some times he feels ? ... .. .

15

she kissed me her jaw dropped off sand fills my mouth she puts her jaw back on then whistles here kitty-kitty here her kitty my pit-bull snorts snot computationally crazy clouds on my shoulders turn dark from sword to piercing spear i throw I run I turn around bulls eye on my heart can't you see we are killing myself she ran an got the gun let me do the funny part just let me watch you in misery untill the sun goes down then she kissed me ? ... .. .

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC

lashingstars

Untitled

she kissed me her jaw dropped off sand fills my mouth she puts her jaw back on then whistles here kitty-kitty here her kitty my pit-bull snorts snot computationally crazy clouds on my shoulders turn dark from sword to piercing spear i throw I run I turn around bulls eye on my heart can't you see we are killing myself she ran an got the gun let me do the funny part just let me watch you in misery untill the sun goes down then she kissed me ? ... .. .

38

she cried in an circle she thought till puddles she cried then she an me but not really am i her no no no not really she cried ? ... .. .

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC

lashingstars

Untitled

she cried in an circle she thought till puddles she cried then she an me but not really am i her no no no not really she cried ? ... .. .

25

we will read you dreamed from my trunk trust me you will read ? ... .. .

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC

lashingstars

Untitled

we will read you dreamed from my trunk trust me you will read ? ... .. .

11

he made me an fork out of an paper plate then he roasted my marshmallows she made her boyfriend he made me ? ... .. .

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC

lashingstars

Untitled

he made me an fork out of an paper plate then he roasted my marshmallows she made her boyfriend he made me ? ... .. .

20

we really just wanted to throw her in the bushes man she makes me mad first line title same not sure what untitled means in less you won an black eye ? ... .. .

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC

lashingstars

Untitled

we really just wanted to throw her in the bushes man she makes me mad first line title same not sure what untitled means in less you won an black eye ? ... .. .

17

It’s not about fitting it all into the car; it’s about fitting the pieces together against the agrestic trunk space. It’s the way we hungrily wait to spit up our influence It’s the patient extraction of a cat cornered conver sation that is easier to shove under the innate rug that is this chaotic l i f e

0

Mar 2, 2018

Mar 2, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC

Ofmybeing

Unpacking

It’s not about fitting it all into the car; it’s about fitting the pieces together against the agrestic trunk space. It’s the way we hungrily wait to spit up our influence It’s the patient extraction of a cat cornered conver sation that is easier to shove under the innate rug that is this chaotic l i f e

13

let’s run to the vermouth tree let’s run up the bark chipping off skin showing smooth pane you and me you and me just you and me you and me we’ll be kings in our altitude we’ll drink the sap to makes us drowsy we’ll take a nap on the branches grand like muscular thighs of amicable giants planted right here in the sand let’s run up the vermouth tree and laze around like vagabonds whose only inspiration is to live to long and to live long just like this horizontal wooden palace which shall persist when we are gone which shall resist broken innocence for her branches always reach towards the sky never regretting or failing to try its sweet earthiness shall remind us of the goodness of nature as we drift to dreams its sweet richness fortified reminds us of things powerful and magical you and me you and me we’ll be befuddled atop her palms held in her grace as we hang as voluntary adornments clinging on for love returning home when the night’s to come. until the setting sun greets us here atop the cusp flowerful smoke defusing what’s become of us while the clouds turn sad at dusk a must, the rust is true and magnificent and you and I stay drunk.

0

Apr 8, 2016

Apr 8, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC

saryachan

Vermouth Tree

let’s run to the vermouth tree let’s run up the bark chipping off skin showing smooth pane you and me you and me just you and me you and me we’ll be kings in our altitude we’ll drink the sap to makes us drowsy we’ll take a nap on the branches grand like muscular thighs of amicable giants planted right here in the sand let’s run up the vermouth tree and laze around like vagabonds whose only inspiration is to live to long and to live long just like this horizontal wooden palace which shall persist when we are gone which shall resist broken innocence for her branches always reach towards the sky never regretting or failing to try its sweet earthiness shall remind us of the goodness of nature as we drift to dreams its sweet richness fortified reminds us of things powerful and magical you and me you and me we’ll be befuddled atop her palms held in her grace as we hang as voluntary adornments clinging on for love returning home when the night’s to come. until the setting sun greets us here atop the cusp flowerful smoke defusing what’s become of us while the clouds turn sad at dusk a must, the rust is true and magnificent and you and I stay drunk.

56

I can stare at a tree a million times, and see a familiar composition within each. Roots, Trunk, Branches, Leaves. It's composition has no surprise to my eyes because It's been the same my whole life. But if i look at it, this one time. Can i see a tree, standing tall with branches reaching out like desperate arms to proceed past the canopy in which it's elders have previously formed. Can i see the bark, tightly hugging its intricate insides to protect like a fortified city that expands and grows stronger as each day passes by it's walls. Can i see the leaves, Dancing with the wind with a beautiful alliance to exchange it's touch with a breath of oxygen to fill my lungs. Can i see the fullness of life it bears, As it only proceeds through the construct of natural inspiration. Perfect in all it does, Because it only does What it is meant to do. May I live As this tree i see.

0

Feb 2, 2015

Feb 2, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC

stefan-smith

This Tree I See

I can stare at a tree a million times, and see a familiar composition within each. Roots, Trunk, Branches, Leaves. It's composition has no surprise to my eyes because It's been the same my whole life. But if i look at it, this one time. Can i see a tree, standing tall with branches reaching out like desperate arms to proceed past the canopy in which it's elders have previously formed. Can i see the bark, tightly hugging its intricate insides to protect like a fortified city that expands and grows stronger as each day passes by it's walls. Can i see the leaves, Dancing with the wind with a beautiful alliance to exchange it's touch with a breath of oxygen to fill my lungs. Can i see the fullness of life it bears, As it only proceeds through the construct of natural inspiration. Perfect in all it does, Because it only does What it is meant to do. May I live As this tree i see.

35