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Rainer Maria Rilke was born in Prague in 1875. He published three books of poetry by the age of twenty-one (Life and Songs, Sacrifice to the Lares, and Dream-Crowned). In 1897 he traveled to Russia where he met Tolstoy, an early influence on his first serious works. Later he befriended Auguste Rodin and, for a time, served as his secretary. It was during his twelve-year residence in Paris that he enjoyed his greatest poetic activity (The Book of Hours, New Poems, and The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge). At the start of WWI he left France for Munich, then Switzerland, where he spent the last years of his life. The Duino Elegies and Sonnets to Orpheus were both composed shortly before he died of leukemia in 1926.

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Song of the Little Cripple at the Street Corner
by Rainer Maria Rilke

Maybe my soul’s all right.
But my body’s all wrong,  
All bent and twisted,  
All this that hurts me so.

My soul keeps trying, trying
To straighten my body up.
It hangs on my skeleton, frantic,
Flapping its terrified wings.

Look here, look at my hands,  
They look like little wet toads
After a rainstorm’s over,  
Hopping, hopping, hopping.

Maybe God didn’t like
The look of my face when He saw it.
Sometimes a big dog
Looks right into it.

Translated from the German by David Ferry

Translator Notes:
I don’t call this a translation. It’s an experiment in plundering the wonderful Rilke poem for the three figures (the soul flapping its wings, the spasmodic jerking of the toad-like hands, the big dog looking into the stunted cripple’s face) that I found so arresting. There’s material in the original that of course means that the cripple (in Rilke’s poem the dwarf) is much more fully characterized, his situation and his thoughts about it much more fully spelled out, so much less left to implication, than in my larcenous version. I don’t know whether this is an apology or not. Some lines in the Rilke seemed a little too discursive and generalized to me, not for Rilke’s poem but for the one I had in mind.

Those three figures just knocked me out. And they seemed appropriate to what I’d observed of a young man, a stunted beggar at a street corner near my house, and I wanted to make, as it were, a kind of abstraction of a poem about him, focused on those three figures: the soul as a bird, the hands, the big dog (God spelled backward) looking into the little man’s face.

For years and years I’ve been working on poems about street people. One of these, “The Song of the Drunkard,” is also adapted from this same series of poems by Rilke.

—D.F.


 
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