I haven’t heard back from the publisher whose permission I sought for the poem I wanted to share today, so, wary of infringing copyright, I go back a century or so to Rilke’s Poems from the Book of Hours. For some reason, I can’t separate it out into four-line stanzas, or separate off my comments at the end; please DIY as you read.

Now the hour bows down, it touches me, throbs

metallic, lucid and bold:

my senses are trembling. I feel my own power —

on the plastic day I lay hold.

Until I perceived it, no thing was complete,

but waited, hushed, unfulfilled.

My vision is ripe, to each glance like a bride

comes softly the thing that was willed.

There is nothing too small, but my tenderness paints

it large on a background of gold,

and I prize it, not knowing whose soul at the sight,

released, may unfold…

End.

I’m not having that sort of hour, day, or week, but I’m sure glad Rilke did.

Check out the other Tuesday poems here.