Rilke’s America

30 T I K K U N W W W. T I K K U N . O R G N O V E M B E R / D E C E M B E R 2 0 1 0 POETRY 1. Tellus,poet,whatyoudo—Ipraise Only, instead, the grave rasp of Kohelet praisingthedead,whicharealreadydead morethantheliving,whichareyetalive. Yea,betterhethanboth,whohasnotyetbeen, norseentheevilworkdoneunderthesun. The livingfreeze infear andturnaway, except the oneswho make a vulture’s living perchedon others’ fear. I spitat both, but the wind’s caprice doubles the spittleback to my ownface. Which, also,has turnedaway. 2. Chicago 2/15/03 Whyaretherenotafew,three,five,ten,whostandtocryoutin thepublicsquares: enough! andwhowillatleasthavegiven theirlivesthatitshouldbeenough,whilethoseoutthereare nowsuccumbingonlysothatthefrightfulthingshallgoonand onandthereshallbenotakingaccountofdestruction. (RMR to EllenDelp,10/10/1915) We stoodtogether inthepublicsquare andcriedEnough! Of course, nobodyshot us— quiteunnecessary. The frightful thing wouldarriveon schedule.No onewouldkeep tabs on foreignbodiesmutilated,dead, or exiled. Nonetheless, inbitter cold, we musteredforthe marchalongDevonStreet, jamminga Seven-Eleven parkinglot. Across the street,a sparsely-furnishedrestaurant full of bearded men. Assuredthat we, outsiders,women among us,mightcomein, we huddledover teaandaskedthe owner what peoplehad to say aboutthis war. “It’s terrible,of course, buthewilldo it, he willdo it,no matter what wesay.” At othertables, talk inanother language, opaqueto us. Sinceeveryoneseemed careful not to lookat us, wedidour best to lookat them without beingseen to look. The marchassembled finally,witha banner the bullhornsaidwas Urdu(Englishunderneath). Too manyspeeches, as wecurledour toes to wardoff frostbite. Somebodyyelled“Let’s move!” Over the halal groceries, restaurants named “Ghandi”or “Punjab,” andstorefronts bright with vernal sarisinthe dead of winter, faces appeared at windows, lookingdownat us, a mobof strangerschanting“NoBloodfor Oil.” Nobodycalled to us, orsmiled or waved. What they looked was worried, as if some backlash aimed at us might land,instead, on them. At intersections, counter-demonstrators reviled us as appeasers soldto Terrorists. We didn’tanswer. Notthat they wouldn’tlisten, though that was likely,but that weourselves weredonewith listening. Bruterepetition husked ourwordsof meaning,leavingonly three empty syllables: blood,oil,war. The bullhornaskedus what wewanted. “Coffee,” Somebodyanswered, spiritchilled withcold. 3. Then,allatonce,inthemidstofhisthoughts,itseemedthatfrom theragingstormavoicehadcalledtohim.... (Princess Marievon ThurnundTaxis-Hohenlohe,MemoriesofRainerMariaRilke) Leaningintothe dark, I listen: nothing. Thunder laggingthe lightning,monochrome rain, facefulsof drenchingwind.Bored andunblessed, I slam the windowshutandread theTimes. An airstrike, itreports, blew upa wedding, andlast week, some “insurgents” hita mosque— ormaybeitsaida market? The papers grow interchangeable,fusingalldays to one. “Unnamed officials” tellus wecan’tstop doingthefrightfulthing,lest worse thingsfollow. If storms can speak, what this onesays is “war.” NotWho,ifIcried,wouldhearmethenamong Theordersofangels, butwhether—iftherewereangels— I couldhearthem, callingagainst the wind. 4. Andyou,who spentyour war yearsfleeingwomen inthearms of other women,writingpoems to A inroomspaidforbyB, demanding exemptionfromthe army, lest a bullet plug the Orphean fountainof your throat, Rilke’s America Politics_2.qxd:Politics 10/12/10 1:27 PM Page 30 N O V E M B E R / D E C E M B E R 2 0 1 0 W W W. T I K K U N . O R G T I K K U N 31 wouldleavethe talkativepartyto stareat darkness, waitingfor angels. When theyarrived,theirfaces, radiantwithannihilating violence, flashedimages of everythingyou’d fled. 5. # 333 (draft lottery, 1970) AndI, who spentmywar yearswritingdrafts of C.O. forms, thentearingthem inshreds becauseitwas notGod whowouldforbidme, but onlymy disgust,a human thing— Andwhat of the “The GoodWar,” forwhichmy father volunteered(wouldI havedonethesame?); visitingtheconsulateof Canada to see aboutgoingback; gettingmy childhood shrinkto writea letter(“Don’tbeupset, you’renot as crazy as itsays youare”); dreadingthe thought of beingput injail andreallygoingmad, committingsuicide. The letterdidn’t work—they said1-Y (not top-grade cannonfodder, but I’d do); then camethewaitto beexcused orchosen. Andthenmy birthday drew 333— the onlygameof chanceI’ve ever won. Or didI lose? Themerelyluckysquander alltheirwinnings,knowingthem undeserved. 6. Obreath,invisiblepoem We have devaluedair, called spiritonce. Eachbreath enacts a faith in theinvisible, which speech, thoughmadeof breath, willnotconfess. Allthat escapesis talk, which as theadage illustrates insayingso, is cheap, but gesturestowardan honorableshame at drawingbreathandgivingnothingback. Now shameis gone;articulatespeech is going— what’s left is quantity, andwecounteverything but this enclosingelement,whereall we cherish rises, falls, andvanishes. Who, inthisreekingatmosphere, can tell our flatus fromafflatus? Master, slain by the tipof a rose’s thorn,you’d diehalfway throughoneof ourinchoatechildhoods of coarsenedmusicandconfused desire. 7. Excursus Abroad (forHugh Ormsby-Lennon) In London’sClerkenwell,the wellitself sits inthe basement of a postwar building filledwithclerks, not“clerkes.” You...