Five Mesostics of Rilke’s First Duino Elegy — Re: “Hope and Hopelessness”
I’m tired of crying these days. And so here is something completely different. If you don’t know about mesostics, here is a link to try out for fun —
http://mesostics.sas.upenn.edu/
And here are my five mesostomatic results of the First Elegy, along with my “close-reading” and “hopelessly lost” commentary.
I should admit at the start that I have been a huge fan** of John Cage’s music for many, many, too many years, but never knew about his poetry at all until this class (ModPo from U.Penn.) I couldn’t resist this experiment, and will leave it to my peers to judge its success, or not. As in the title to this piece, the spine is “Hope and Hopelessness,” but I was unable to line it up correctly here due to formatting difficulties, and have not added “wing” words. What you see is what was generated by the given computer-generated program, except for my “comments.”
**A somewhat strange lonely only child, I also spent many happy hours sitting on the floor in the dining room, my back pressed up against the finely woven fabric-covered speaker with the doors pulled close around me like a furniture hug, listening to the submarine soundings from the shortwave on my parents’ huge console mahogany Magnavox, and, many years later, I actually enjoyed the loud “music” coming from the hospital MRI machine through a long series of diagnostic scans. The technician deemed me totally insane when I mentioned afterward that it had sounded like music to me — either John Cage or an aboriginal didgeridoo (unfortunately, she had never heard of either). Apparently I was the first person ever to say that I liked the sounds made by the machine.
Mesos and “Close-Reading”
#1
wHo
Out
interPreted
thEre
thAt
thiNnedout
likeD
oH
Or
sPace
wEars
wouLd
shE
Stay
diSappointing
oNe
thE
Solitary
Stands
Who is doing this outrageous close reading? The pleasure has become slim. The space around me is closing in, and how long will she remain not performing up to par? I stand alone.
#2
Heavy
fOr
emPtiness
thE
Air
iN
Deeply
Have
fOr
Past
walkEd
vioLiin
gavE
thiS
waS
haNdle
wEre
alwayS
Still
But wait, something is happening here, full of promise because of the space given. Breathe it in. Past music is returning to memory, and we’re alive, after all. Be still.
#3
wHere
cOuld
Praising
thE
fAlling
oNly
exhausteD
Herself
nOt
stamPa
sufficiEntly
girL
whosE
haS
intenSer
oNly
bEcome
Should
theSe
How many times do I have to pick up your pieces? I am not Gaspara Stampa (n.1), have no patience, and need love returned. What or who would you rather have me be?
#4
tHat
lOving
Paid
attEntion
wAs
listeNing
coulD
tHe
unbrOken
sPeak
quiEtly
wiLl
mE
Should
Semblance
moviNgon
thE
cuStoms
roSes
Maybe if I knew you better or if you would finally hear what I am saying, then it would all be okay, but no, it’s not to be, and I’m leaving. My predilections and desires win. You never gave me flowers.
#5
otHer
prOmising
Plaything
strangE
All
oNce
harD
tHough
errOr
sharP
angEls
wouLd
oftEn
uS
thingS
oNe
thE
Such
Secrets
And now, something new and shiny, and somehow frightening. My guardian angel does not approve, and I am foolishly rushing in, having forgotten pain, and keeping my old secrets to myself.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Before me, pasted on my computer keyboard, is a quote from one of the creators of the nuclear bomb, Robert Oppenheimer: “The optimist thinks this is the best of all possible worlds — the pessimist knows it.” I was an unplanned, unwanted “child of chance,” and my life has followed accordingly. I only know a few things for certain, and one of them is that the only sure bet is that things will change. “This too shall pass.”
Changes happen for many reasons, probably the least of which is our own intention. So even though I firmly believe in the beauty of a finely-crafted piece of art filled with emotion and meaning, so, too, do I believe in the beauty of a randomly placed pile of leaves, or words somewhat strewn “by the wind.” When all of the boundaries are removed, the open space can either crush or expand. Chance is not an arbitrarily random operation, but the result of circumstances and the primal forces at work. I spent much of my first 40 years floating on my back in the Pacific Ocean, far from shore, totally relaxed, out past the breaking waves. Porpoises came to play. Seabirds swooped down to examine me. The sky and seawater and the plants and creatures in and above and I all became one combined whole. Letting go of what has come to be called “agency” is probably the hardest thing to accomplish, but being a little crazy (and a woman without substantive power of any kind) helps the process along.
Musicians all know that the rests, and the spaces between notes, are equally as important as the sounds made. Because in that so-called empty space, things happen within the listener, magic things. St. Francis de Sales said “Make yourself familiar with the angels, and behold them frequently in spirit; for without being seen, they are present with you.” My own poetry and music come from a place for which there is no map, and others’ poetry and music touch me in a way that has no name. That we are able to communicate at all is the ultimate miracle (n.2).
All of that said, John Cage did not rely totally on chance or give himself up into the wholeness of the universe; rather, he engaged an extreme (and varying) set of complicated self-imposed “rules” for his “chance” creations, just as we must impose some order on our lives if all is not to be constant chaos. Procedure and intention do count, a lot, and even a chance event reflects the person to whom it may happen, made immediately apparent by that person’s reaction. We have intentionally taken this class (ModPo from U.Penn in 2013), which was carefully crafted by our professor (Al Filreis) and TAs, yet during these past weeks we have all chanced upon poetry and thoughts and emotions either heretofore unrecognized, suddenly remembered, or seen in new light. I believe that is the result John Cage was hoping for — to cause a new way of seeing, a new art of hearing, a newly cognizant individual.
And Just for Good Measure, Here is the first stanza of Rilke’s First
Duino(n.3) Elegy:
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic
Orders? And even if one were to suddenly
take me to its heart, I would vanish into its
stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but
the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear,
and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains
to destroy us. Every Angel is terror.
And so I hold myself back and swallow the cry
of a darkened sobbing. Ah, who then can
we make use of? Not Angels: not men,
and the resourceful creatures see clearly
that we are not really at home
in the interpreted world. Perhaps there remains
some tree on a slope, that we can see
again each day: there remains to us yesterday’s street,
and the thinned-out loyalty of a habit
that liked us, and so stayed, and never departed.
Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind full of space
wears out our faces — whom would she not stay for,
the longed-for, gentle, disappointing one, whom the solitary heart
with difficulty stands before. Is she less heavy for lovers?
Ah, they only hide their fate between themselves.
Do you not know yet? Throw the emptiness out of your arms
to add to the spaces we breathe; maybe the birds
will feel the expansion of air, in more intimate flight.
Notes
1 — Gaspara Stampa. 1523–1554. Famous for her intense love for the young Lord of Treviso, Collaltino, which he was ultimately unable to return. She wrote some two hundred sonnets telling the story of her love for him, dying at the age of thirty-one. She was for Rilke a ‘type’ of unrequited love. (note from link to Rilke’s poem, above)
2 — Paraphrasing Noam Chomsky.
3 — Duino Castle is a real place in Italy, where Rilke did his best writing. and available to tourists to visit. I will never make it there except in my imagination, but here is a link — http://castellodiduino.it/eng.html
