Das war der Seelen wunderliches Bergwerk.
Wie stille Silbererze gingen sie
als Adern durch sein Dunkel. Zwischen Wurzeln
entsprang das Blut, das fortgeht zu den Menschen,
und schwer wie Porphyr sah es aus im Dunkel.
Sonst war nichts Rotes.
Felsen waren da
und wesenlose Wälder. Brücken über Leeres
und jener große graue blinde Teich,
der über seinem fernen Grunde hing
wie Regenhimmel über einer Landschaft.
Und zwischen Wiesen, sanft und voller Langmut,
erschien des einen Weges blasser Streifen,
wie eine lange Bleiche hingelegt.
Und dieses einen Weges kamen sie.
Voran der schlanke Mann im blauen Mantel,
der stumm und ungeduldig vor sich aussah.
Ohne zu kauen fraß sein Schritt den Weg
in großen Bissen; seine Hände hingen
schwer und verschlossen aus dem Fall der Falten
und wußten nicht mehr von der leichten Leier,
die in die Linke eingewachsen war
wie Rosenranken in den Ast des Ölbaums.
Und seine Sinne waren wie entzweit:
indes der Blick ihm wie ein Hund vorauslief,
umkehrte, kam und immer wieder weit
und wartend an der nächsten Wendung stand, -
blieb sein Gehör wie ein Geruch zurück.
Manchmal erschien es ihm als reichte es
bis an das Gehen jener beiden andern,
die folgen sollten diesen ganzen Aufstieg.
Dann wieder wars nur seines Steigens Nachklang
und seines Mantels Wind was hinter ihm war.
Er aber sagte sich, sie kämen doch;
sagte es laut und hörte sich verhallen.
Sie kämen doch, nur wärens zwei
die furchtbar leise gingen. Dürfte er
sich einmal wenden (wäre das Zurückschaun
nicht die Zersetzung dieses ganzen Werkes,
das erst vollbracht wird), müßte er sie sehen,
die beiden Leisen, die ihm schweigend nachgehn:
Den Gott des Ganges und der weiten Botschaft,
die Reisehaube über hellen Augen,
den schlanken Stab hertragend vor dem Leibe
und flügelschlagend an den Fußgelenken;
und seiner linken Hand gegeben: sie.
Die So-geliebte, daß aus einer Leier
mehr Klage kam als je aus Klagefrauen;
daß eine Welt aus Klage ward, in der
alles noch einmal da war: Wald und Tal
und Weg und Ortschaft, Feld und Fluß und Tier;
und daß um diese Klage-Welt, ganz so
wie um die andre Erde, eine Sonne
und ein gestirnter stiller Himmel ging,
ein Klage-Himmel mit entstellten Sternen - :
Diese So-geliebte.
Sie aber ging an jenes Gottes Hand,
den Schrittbeschränkt von langen Leichenbändern,
unsicher, sanft und ohne Ungeduld.
Sie war in sich, wie Eine hoher Hoffnung,
und dachte nicht des Mannes, der voranging,
und nicht des Weges, der ins Leben aufstieg.
Sie war in sich. Und ihr Gestorbensein
erfüllte sie wie Fülle.
Wie eine Frucht von Süßigkeit und Dunkel,
so war sie voll von ihrem großen Tode,
der also neu war, daß sie nichts begriff.
Sie war in einem neuen Mädchentum
und unberührbar; ihr Geschlecht war zu
wie eine junge Blume gegen Abend,
und ihre Hände waren der Vermählung
so sehr entwöhnt, daß selbst des leichten Gottes
unendlich leise, leitende Berührung
sie kränkte wie zu sehr Vertraulichkeit.
Sie war schon nicht mehr diese blonde Frau,
die in des Dichters Liedern manchmal anklang,
nicht mehr des breiten Bettes Duft und Eiland
und jenes Mannes Eigentum nicht mehr.
Sie war schon aufgelöst wie langes Haar
und hingegeben wie gefallner Regen
und ausgeteilt wie hundertfacher Vorrat.
Sie war schon Wurzel.
Und als plötzlich jäh
der Gott sie anhielt und mit Schmerz im Ausruf
die Worte sprach: Er hat sich umgewendet -,
begriff sie nichts und sagte leise: Wer?
Fern aber, dunkel vor dem klaren Ausgang,
stand irgend jemand, dessen Angesicht
nicht zu erkennen war. Er stand und sah,
wie auf dem Streifen eines Wiesenpfades
mit trauervollem Blick der Gott der Botschaft
sich schweigend wandte, der Gestalt zu folgen,
die schon zurückging dieses selben Weges,
den Schritt beschränkt von langen Leichenbändern,
unsicher, sanft und ohne Ungeduld.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Aus: Neue Gedichte (1907)
Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes
This was the souls’ strange mine.
Like silent silver ore they wandered
through its dark like veins. Between roots
the blood welled up that makes its way to men,
and it looked hard as porphyry in the dark.
Nothing else was red.
Rocks were there
and unreal forests. Bridges spanning voids
and that huge gray blind unmoving lake
that hung above its distant bed
like rainy sky above a landscape.
And between meadows, soft and full of patience,
the pale stripe of the single path,
laid down like a long pallor being bleached.
And up this single path they came.
In front the slender man in the blue mantle,
who mute and impatient stared ahead.
His stride devoured the path in huge mouthfuls
without slowing to chew; his hands hung heavy
and clenched out of the falling folds
and were no longer conscious of the light lyre
that had twined itself into his left
like tendrils of roses in an olive bough.
And his senses were as if divided:
for while his sight raced ahead like a dog,
turned around, came back, and then stood
far away and waiting at the path’s next turn,—
his hearing, like an odor, lagged behind.
Sometimes it seemed to him it reached
back to the steps of those two others
who were to follow for the whole ascent.
Then again it was just his own climbing’s echo
and his mantle’s wind he heard behind him.
But he told himself they were coming,
said it aloud and heard the words die out.
They were coming, it was only that they walked
with frightening lightness. If he could only
turn around once (though any backward glance
would be death to the entire undertaking,
so near completion now), he would have to see them,
those two light-footed ones, who followed silently:
The god of faring and of distant messages,
eyes shining under the traveler’s hood,
the slender staff held out before his body,
and at his ankles a fluttering of wings;
and entrusted to his left hand: she.
The one so loved that from a single lyre
came more lament than ever from lamenting women;
that from lament a world arose, in which
everything had second life: forest and valley
and road and village, field and flock and stream;
and that around this lament world, just as
around the other earth, a sun turned
and a star-filled silent heaven,
a lament heaven with devastated stars—:
This one so loved.
But now she walked at that god’s hand,
her steps, constrained by long winding-sheets,
soft, uncertain, and without impatience.
She was in herself, like a woman near birth,
and thought not of the man, who walked ahead,
and not of the path, which ascended into life.
She was in herself. And her having died
filled her like abundance.
Like a fruit ripe with sweetness and night
she was filled with her great death,
which was so new that she understood nothing.
She was in a new virginity
and untouchable; her sex had closed
like a young flower at approach of evening,
and her hands had been so weaned
from marriage, that even the light god’s
infinitely soft, guiding touch
hurt her like too great a liberty.
She was no longer the blond wife
who echoed often in the poet’s songs,
no longer the vast bed’s scent and island,
and that one man’s property no longer.
She was already loosened like long hair
and given over like fallen rain
and handed out like a limitless supply.
She was already root.
And when without warning
the god stopped her and with pain in his voice
uttered the words: He has turned around—,
she didn’t understand, and answered softly: Who?
But there in the distance, dark against
the bright exit, stood someone whose features
could not be read. He stood and saw
how on that stripe of meadow path
with mournful look the god of messages
turned silently around, to follow the shape
already returning on that same path,
her steps, constrained by the long winding-sheets,
soft, uncertain, and without impatience.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Edward Snow
Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes
That was the strange mine of souls.
As secret ores of silver they passed
like veins through its darkness. Between the roots
blood welled, flowing onwards to Mankind,
and it looked as hard as Porphyry in the darkness.
Otherwise nothing was red.
There were cliffs
and straggling woods. Bridges over voids,
and that great grey blind lake,
that hung above its distant floor
like a rain-filled sky above a landscape.
And between meadows, soft and full of patience,
one path, a pale strip, appeared,
passing by like a long bleached thing.
And down this path they came.
In front the slim man in the blue mantle,
mute and impatient, gazing before him.
His steps ate up the path in huge bites
without chewing: his hands hung,
clumsy and tight, from the falling folds,
and no longer aware of the weightless lyre,
grown into his left side,
like a rose-graft on an olive branch.
And his senses were as if divided:
while his sight ran ahead like a dog,
turned back, came and went again and again,
and waited at the next turn, positioned there –
his hearing was left behind like a scent.
Sometimes it seemed to him as if it reached
as far as the going of those other two,
who ought to be following this complete ascent.
Then once more it was only the repeated sound of his climb
and the breeze in his mantle behind him.
But he told himself that they were still coming:
said it aloud and heard it die away.
They were still coming, but they were two
fearfully light in their passage. If only he might
turn once more ( if looking back
were not the ruin of all his work,
that first had to be accomplished), then he must see them,
the quiet pair, mutely following him:
the god of errands and far messages,
the travelling-hood above his shining eyes,
the slender wand held out before his body,
the beating wings at his ankle joints;
and on his left hand, as entrusted: her.
The so-beloved, that out of one lyre
more grief came than from all grieving women:
so that a world of grief arose, in which
all things were there once more: forest and valley,
and road and village, field and stream and creature:
and that around this grief-world, just as
around the other earth, a sun
and a silent star-filled heaven turned,
a grief-heaven with distorted stars –
she was so-loved.
But she went at that god’s left hand,
her steps confined by the long grave-cloths,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
She was in herself, like a woman near term,
and did not think of the man, going on ahead,
or the path, climbing upwards towards life.
She was in herself. And her being-dead
filled her with abundance.
As a fruit with sweetness and darkness,
so she was full with her vast death,
that was so new, she comprehended nothing.
She was in a new virginity
and untouchable: her sex was closed
like a young flower at twilight,
and her hands had been weaned so far
from marriage that even the slight god’s
endlessly gentle touch, as he led,
hurt her like too great an intimacy.
She was no longer that blonde woman,
sometimes touched on in the poet’s songs,
no longer the wide bed’s scent and island,
and that man’s possession no longer.
She was already loosened like long hair,
given out like fallen rain,
shared out like a hundredfold supply.
She was already root.
And when suddenly
the god stopped her and, with anguish in his cry,
uttered the words: ‘He has turned round’ –
she comprehended nothing and said softly: ‘Who?’
But far off, darkly before the bright exit,
stood someone or other, whose features
were unrecognisable. Who stood and saw
how on the strip of path between meadows,
with mournful look, the god of messages
turned, silently, to follow the figure
already walking back by that same path,
her steps confined by the long grave-cloths,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by A. S. Kline
Orfeo. Euridice. Hermes
Fue de las almas fabulosa mina.
Como silenciosas venas de plata
iban por su oscuridad. Entre raíces
salía la sangre que va a los hombres,
y en la oscuridad parecía pesado pórfido.
Por lo demás nada había más rojo.
Veíanse allí rocas
y bosques incorpóreos. Puentes sobre el vacío,
y aquel enorme, gris y opaco lago
suspendido sobre remoto asiento
cual cielo de lluvia sobre el paisaje.
Y entre los prados, de suave y plena longanimidad,
mostrábase la pálida cinta de un sendero,
tendida como larga palidez.
Y venían por esta única senda.
Al frente el hombre esbelto en manto azul,
que mudo e impaciente ante sí mismo parecía.
Sin masticar su paso devoraba el camino
a grandes trozos; sus manos colgaban
graves y herméticas siguiendo el caer de los pliegues,
olvidadas ya de la leve lira
que a su izquierda se hallaba incorporada
cual rosal en una rama de olivo.
Partidos parecían sus sentidos:
mientras su mirada iba delante como un perro,
regresaba y de nuevo se alejaba
esperándole quieta en un recodo,
su oído iba detrás como un olor.
A veces se imaginaba como si llegara
hasta donde iban aquellos dos
que debían seguir toda esta cuesta.
Y no era sino el eco de su ascenso,
y detrás de él, el viento de su manto.
Pero vienen, lo decía para sí,
lo decía en voz alta, y lo oía repetir por el eco.
Vendrán de seguro, es que serán dos
que andan sin ruido. Si pudiera volver
la vista (si al mirar atrás no fuera
la anulación de toda aquella obra,
que estaba en curso) tendría que verlos,
a ambos, leves, siguiéndole callados.
Al dios de a pie y del lejano aviso,
gorra de viaje sobre ojos claros,
llevando ante el cuerpo flexible vara
y en los talones desplegadas alas;
y a su mano izquierda, confiada: ella.
La Tan amada, que de una lira hizo
brotar más llanto que jamás plañidera alguna;
que del llanto salió un mundo en el que
todo existió de nuevo: bosque y valle,
lugar y senda, animal, campo y río;
que por este mundo-llanto, lo mismo
que por la otra tierra, se movió un sol
y un estrellado y silencioso cielo,
un cielo-llanto de astros alterados:
Por ella Tan-amada.
Pero ella iba de la mano del dios,
impedido el paso por las largas vendas mortuorias,
vacilante, suave, y sin impaciencia.
Sumida en sí misma, como en sublime esperanza,
sin reparar en el hombre que iba delante,
ni en la senda que subía a la vida.
Sumida en sí misma. Y su estar muerta
la colmaba como una plenitud.
Como un fruto de oscuridad y dulzura
así estaba llena de su gran muerte,
tan nueva que ella nada comprendía.
Hallábase en una nueva, no hollada
dolcellez; su sexo estaba cerrado
como un capullo hacia el atardecer.
Y sus manos tan deshabituadas
del tálamo, que aún el más leve roce
del ligero dios que la conducía
le ofendía como un exceso de intimidad.
Ella no era ya aquella mujer rubia
que a veces sonaba en las canciones del poeta,
no más isla y perfume del anchuroso lecho,
no era ya pertenencia de aquel hombre.
Estaba ya suelta como larga cabellera,
y entregada como lluvia que cae,
y repartida como acopio centuplicado.
Era ya raíz.
Y cuando rápido súbitamente
el dios la detuvo, y con dolor en la expresión
pronunció las palabras: «¡Él volvió la cabeza!».
Ella nada comprendió, y dijo en voz queda: «¿Quién?».
Pero a lo lejos, oscuro frente a la clara salida,
se divisaba un hombre cuyo rostro
no se podía reconocer. Estaba en pie y vio
cómo por la pradera, sobre la cinta de un sendero,
con triste mirada el dios del mensaje
daba la vuelta silencioso, y seguía a la figura
que ya desandaba el mismo camino,
impedido el paso por las largas vendas mortuorias,
vacilante, suave, y sin impaciencia.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Escrito en Roma, a comienzos de 1904. Redacción definitiva: Jonsered, Suecia, otoño de 1904.
https://www.literatura.us/idiomas/rmr_breve.html
Orfeo. Euridice. Ermete
Era la prodigiosa miniera delle anime.
Come vene d’argento silenziose
scorrevano il suo buio. Tra radici
sgorgava il sangue che affluisce agli uomini
e greve come porfido appariva nel buoi.
Di rosso altro non c’era.
Rupi c’erano,
selve incorporee e ponti sul vuoto
e quell’enorme, grigio, cieco stagno,
sospeso sopra il suo lontano fondo
come cielo piovoso su un paesaggio.
E in mezzo a prati miti di pazienza,
pallida striscia, un unico sentiero era visibile
come una lunga tela distesa ad imbiancare.
E per quest’unico sentiero essi venivano.
In testa l’uomo snello in manto azzurro,
guardando innanzi muto e impaziente
divorava la strada col suo passo
a grandi morsi senza masticarla. Gravi, chiuse,
dalle pieghe del manto pendevano le mani,
dimenticata ormai la lieve lira
ch’era incarnata nella sua sinistra
come tralci di rosa nel ramo dell’ulivo.
Ed i suoi sensi erano in due divisi:
mentre l’occhio in avanti correva come un cane,
tornava ed ogni volta nuovamente lontano
alla prossima svolta era ad attenderlo -
l’udito gli restava - come un odore - indietro.
Talora gli sembrava di percepire il passo
degli altri due viandanti che dovevano
seguirlo fino al colmo dell’ascesa.
Poi nient’altro che l’eco del suo ascendere
dietro di lui e il vento del suo manto.
E tuttavia venivano, si disse
a voce alta, e udì perdersi la voce.
Venivano, gli parve, ma con passo inudibile,
i due. Se per un attimo
gli fosse dato volgersi (se il volgersi a guardare
non fosse la rovina dell’intera sua opera
prima del compimento) li vedrebbe
i silenziosi due che lo seguivano:
il dio dei viandanti e del messaggio
lontano, sopra gli occhi chiari il pètaso,
lo snello caducèo proteso innanzi,
e alle caviglie il battito dell’ali;
e affidata alla sua sinistra: lei.
La Tanto-amata che un’unica lira
la pianse più che schiera di prèfiche nel tempo,
e dal lamento un mondo nuovo nacque,
ove ancora una volta tutto c’era: selva, valle,
paesi, vie, e campi, e fiumi e belve;
e intorno a questo mondo del lamento
come intorno ad un’altra terra, un sole
ed un cielo stellato taciti si volgevano,
un cielo del lamento pieno di astri stravolti -:
Lei, la Tanto-amata.
Ma ella andava alla mano di quel dio,
e il passo le inceppavano le lunghe bende funebri,
incerta, mite e senza impazienza;
chiusa in sé come un grembo che prepari una nascita,
senza un pensiero all’uomo innanzi a lei,
né alla via che alla vita risaliva.
Chiusa era in sé. E il suo essere morta
la riempiva come una pienezza.
Come d’oscurità e dolcezza un frutto,
era colma della sua grande morte,
così nuova che tutto le era incomprensibile.
Ella era in una verginità nuova
ed intangibile. Il suo sesso chiuso
come un giovane fiore sulla sera,
e le sue mani erano così immemori
di nozze che anche il dio che la guidava
col suo tocco infinitamente lieve,
come un contatto troppo familiare l’offendeva.
E non era più lei la bionda donna
che echeggiava talvolta nei canti del poeta,
isola profumata in mezzo all’ampio letto;
né più gli apparteneva.
Come una lunga chioma era già sciolta,
come pioggia caduta era diffusa,
come un raccolto in mille era divisa.
Ormai era radice.
E quando il dio bruscamente
fermatala, con voce di dolore
esclamò: Si è voltato -,
lei non capì e in un soffio chiese: Chi?
Ma in lontananza - oscuro contro la soglia chiara -
qualcuno in volto non riconoscibile
immobile guardava
la striscia di sentiero in mezzo ai prati
dove il dio messaggero, l’occhio afflitto,
si voltava in silenzio seguendo la figura
che per la via di prima già tornava,
e il passo le inceppavano le lunghe bende funebri,
incerta, mite e senza impazienza.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Traduzione: Giacomo Cacciapaglia
Orpheus. Eurke. Hermes
Ruhların dipsiz, garip madeniydi bu.
Ve onlar, sessiz gümüş damarları gibi
ilerlerdi bu madenin karanlığında. Arasında
köklerin, insanlığa akan kan fışkırırdı
karanlıkta ağır somaki parçalarınca.
Başka şey yoktu kırmızı.
Ama kayalar vardı,
düşümsü ormanlar. Boşluk üstünde köprüler,
ve bir manzara üstündeki boz, yağmurlu bir gök gibi
uzak yatağının tâ üstünde asılı kalmış
o büyük göl sonra: boz, yansıtmayan.
Ve çimenlikler arasında, yumuşak ve sabırlı,
ağarsın diye serilmiş uzun keten bezince
görünürdü tek yolun ensiz, soluk kesimi.
Onlar işte bu tek yola yaklaşırlardı.
Önde ince uzun er kişi, sırtında göğel üstlük,
önüne bakardı hep, dilsiz bir sabırsızlık içinde.
Adımları yutar, tıkınırdı yolu parça parça
durup çiğnemeden; dökülen kıvrımlardan
elleri sarkardı, ağır ve yumruk yumruk,
canlı çengin artık farkında olmadan:
soluna kök salan çengin,
nasıl sarılırsa gül sarmaşıkları zeytin dalına.
Duyuları bölünmüşe benzerdi: çünkü,
görmesi bir köpek gibi koşarken önünde,
dönüp geri gelir, dinelirken ikide bir,
uzak ve beklerken, yolun öbür dönemecinde –
işitmesi hep geri kalırdı bir koku gibi.
Ona öyle gelirdi ki zaman zaman işitmesi
geri uzardı öbür kişilerin gelişlerine;
bu çıkış yolunu izlese gerekti onlar da.
Derken arkasında bir şey yoktu yine
kendi ayak sesinden, üstlüğünün yelinden başka.
Ama kendini hâlâ geldiklerine inandırırdı;
geliyorlar derdi yüksek sesle, sönmesini dinlerdi sesinin.
Onlar gelirdi hâlâ, yalnız iki kişiydi
yürüyen, korkulu, çekingen. Dönüp
bakabilseydi bir kez (geri bakmak
bu işi bozmak olmasaydı bir,
bu daha bitmemiş) onları görebilirdi besbelli,
kendisini sessizce izleyen iki tez-gidişliyi:
Yolculuk ve uzak haber tanrısı, başında
parlak gözlerini saklayan gezi başlığı,
önünde tuttuğu ince değnek,
hafif çırpınan kanatlar topuklarında;
sol elindeyse, kendisine emanet, kadın .
O, öyle sevgiliydi ki, tek çalgıdan yükselen yas
daha çoktu bütün kadın-yascıların yasından,-
içinde her şeyin bir daha buluştuğu
bir yas dünyası yükselmişti: orman ve vadi
ve yol ve köy, tarla ve ırmak ve hayvan,-
bu yas dünyasının çevresinde dönerdi
bir başka yeryuvarlağının çevresinde döner gibi bir güneş
ve yıldızlarla yüklü, sessiz, bütün bir gök,
biçimsiz yıldızlarıyla bir yas göğü
O, öyle sevgiliydi.
Ama işte yürürdü tanrıyla elele,
adımları uzun kefeniyle çevrili,
kararsız, usul ve sabırsızlanmadan.
Sarınmış kendine, vakti yakın biri gibi,
ne önlerinde yürüyen adamı düşünürdü,
hayata yükselen yolu ne de.
Sarınmış kendine, gezinirdi. Ölmüşlüğü
onu bir dolgunluk gibi doldururdu.
Tatlılıkla, karanlıkla dolu bir meyve gibiydi
büyük ölümüyle; öyle yeniydi ki bu ölüm,
şimdilik kadın bir şey alamazdı içeri.
Bir yeni kızlığa ermişti,
dokunulmazdı. Akşamın gelmesiyle kapanan
bir çiçek gibi kapanmıştı cinsiyeti.
Solgun elleri karılık etmek alışkanlığından
öyle uzaklaşmıştı ki, ince tanrının
götürürken sonsuz yumuşak değinmesi bile
onu tedirgin ederdi bir aşırı senlibenlilik gibi.
Ozanın şiirlerinde sık sık yansıyan
o sarışın kadın değildi artık;
ne kokusuydu geniş sedirin artık, ne adası,
ne de şurdaki adamındı artık.
Şimdiden uzun saçlar gibi çözülmüştü,
yağan yağmur gibi her yere sunulmuştu,
çok türlü bir azık gibi dağıtılmıştı.
Köktü şimdiden.
Ve birdenbire,
tanrı elinden tutunca, acı bir
çığlıkla söyleyince şu sözleri: «Geri baktı!»
bir şey anlamadı, dedi yavaşça: «Kim?»
Oysa uzakta, parlak yerinde karamsı,
biri dururdu her kimse, yüzü
belli değildi. Durur ve görürdü
nasıl, çimenler arasındaki yol kesiminde,
haber tanrısının, yüzünde acı, sessizce döndüğünü
gitmek üzre ardından o şeklin:
aynı yoldan geri dönmekte olan,
adımları uzun kefeniyle çevrili,
kararsız, usul ve sabırsızlanmadan.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Çeviri: A.Turan Oflazoğlu
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| Relief: Orpheus, Eurydice and Hermes. Paris, Louvre Museum. Private collection, Borghese. From the Borghese collection. Since 1807 in the Louvre. |
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