Papaya for Rainer Maria Rilke, cold plums for me

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The cold plums whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Rilke sits
in a corner making furious notes, while I sit in another corner
making furious notes. The day is sweet and delicious.
I glance down and watch the prowling seahorses at the
aquarium. Find myself buying postcards in the gift shop.
Here are the flowers for the American novelist Nicole Krauss.
After reading Flame in the snow, I closed the book, cried
and saw the divided and the invisible self into half and ego.
If I were yours (but I’m not), I would save it for the truth.
Say to you, that you’d better be good to me. If I were scared,
which I am, because I now have to live without you. I look
outside at the world as it goes on, as it goes on by, and ask,
do I belong here? I become more significant. You become
less of everything. Less of vertigo. Less of torment. Less of
struggle. And if I needed you before, you would be there, but
you’re not now. I am losing everything. The sea, the sea, the
sea. I go walking. I take my walking alone. Just me and the
sky, and when the eye sees something beautiful, something
tragic in that thing of beauty, we draw closer and closer to
the hand of God. As if to say, be not unseen, Christ, be not
sad. Everything, everything was, all I wanted in that moment
was to be happy. But I am not in your arms. I will never see
your happy face again. And there’s this false enchantment
when God speaks to me; all I see around me is analysis, as if
I were lying in the sand. You’re beginning a new evolution. I
am not meant to be sad, but I am. I try to be happy, but you’re
in a kind of paradise, and I am not. Now there’s vertigo in
my life, and torment, and struggle. The telephone is ringing.
I wonder who that could be. It’s not you. Does the person
have your happy face; are you coming home, are you coming
home again? Can you make a collect call from heaven; can
you, Rabbit? See me looking up at the power of the dark sky,
pushing into the wind, into spine, pushing into the small of my back,
beyond the nostalgia and lifeblood of the trees, beyond the
constellations, beyond the gut of the flowers, beyond the lions
gathering in the sea of rainclouds. I am finally on my own
again. Flying solo. Gather this, hunt this, reward yourself with this.
All I have are these words, not your hands, or your mouth, or
lips. I am falling like a leaf defying gravity through the air, to your
heir. You’re gone, but I am still here, locked in this battle, this
vertigo, this torment, this struggle. I was falling in love, while
God had other plans. I was falling in love, but you’re not here.

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    Helize van Vuuren

    The Rilke poem seers, zithers, smokes...

    "Who, if he cried out, could be heard among this clamor?" as Nicole Krauss stated zo astutely (on the endless verbiage of a multitude of Rilke translators).

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