I have been up all day , when I should have been sleeping, reading this amazing poet, whose existence I was not even aware of, I thought it was some blogger whom I stumbled upon through twitter.
Ah a perfect cure for the thing that ailed me! No, I am not going to share with you some really sad , heart broken write, how much ever wonderful the metaphor may be. And it is exquisite. Almost all of the poems from the collection I downloaded from poemhunter.com , is delectable. Something my greedy heart has not been able to stop enjoying since I started reading, but then thats besides the point. As I said, I am not going to share any sad poems.
Nor am I going to share some happy, mushy poem that makes you yearn while leaving you sad and envious and feeling the sting of emptiness and the cold cold air. Especially when its raining. Can anything be more torturous than this? So no, I am not going to subject you to such an aggravation.
But I am indeed going to share a poem more of a lyrical prose. For this, while having the delicate tenderness that reflects in all of his writes, talks of things that are beyond the confines of love, slithers through reality, spirituality and hope,to finally settle within the folds of philosophy. And I am sure by now, you are either too eager to know who the poet is, or which poem it is or are ready to hit me on my head . So without much ado….
Fear of the Inexplicable by Rainer Marie Rilke
But fear of the inexplicable has not alone impoverished the existence of the individual; the relationship between one human being and another has also been cramped by it, as though it had been lifted out of the riverbed of endless possibilities and set down in a fallow spot on the bank, to which nothing happens. For it is not inertia alone that is responsible for human relationships repeating themselves from case to case, indescribably monotonous and unrenewed: it is shyness before any sort of new, unforeseeable experience with which one does not think oneself able to cope.
But only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, not even the most enigmatical, will live the relation to another as something alive and will himself draw exhaustively from his own existence. For if we think of this existence ofthe individual as a larger or smaller room, it appears evident that most people learn to know only a corner of their room, a place by the window, a strip of floor on which they walk up and down. Thus they have a certain security. And yet that dangerous insecurity is so much more human which drives the prisoners in Poe’s stories to feel out the shapes of their horrible dungeonsand not be strangers to the unspeakable terror of their abode.
We, however, are not prisoners. No traps or snares are set about us, and there is nothing which should intimidate or worry us. We are set down in life as in the element to which we best correspond, and over and above this we have through thousands of years of accommodation become so like this life, that when we hold still we are, through a happy mimicry, scarcely to be distinguished from all that surrounds us. We have no reason to mistrust our world, for it is not against us. Has it terrors, they are our terrors; has it abysses, those abysses belong to us; are dangers at hand, we must try to love them. And if only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must always hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful. How should we be able to forget those ancient myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us