I Can Hardly Believe

Ω Ω Ω

I can hardly believe that this tiny death,

over whose head we look every day we wake,

is still such a threat to us and so much trouble.

I really can’t take his growls seriously.

I am still in my body, I have time to build,

my blood will be red long after the rose is gone.

My grasp of things is deeper than the clever games

he finds it fun to play with our fears.

I am the solid world

from which he slipped and fell.

He is like

those monks in cloisters that walk around and around;

one feels a fear when they approach:

one doesn’t know—is it the same one every time,

are there two, are there ten, a thousand monks, more?

All one knows is the strange yellow hand,

which is reaching out so naked and so close. . .

there it is,

as if it came out of your own clothes.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. ManicMuses
    Apr 12, 2011 @ 19:31:23

    Beautiful & haunting. What made you choose this poem today?

    Reply

    • Sandy Sue
      Apr 13, 2011 @ 07:28:55

      There’s hope in it for me. I see the “little death” as bipolar episodes. They are scary and part of us, but only a small part. We are more.

      Reply

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