Rilke has this beautiful poem called "Spanish Trilogy"
in which he does that thing that so many of us
love and hate Rilke for where he romanticizes
the Spanish shepherd.
And he says, a god entering the shepherd's form would not
be diminished.
I'm paraphrasing.
And he ends the poem with talking about the shepherd's
lantern, and says something like,
its lights made death more easily find its way.
And glory is the concept in the Gospel of John.
It's supposed to be the moment at which Jesus's divinity
and identity as a Messiah is beyond doubt.
I think it's connected to the Resurrection of Lazarus.
And, of course, he goes and resurrects Lazarus,
and, of course, there's doubt.
And he keeps asking in several of the Gospels,
what do the people say about me?
He needs to know that his experience, his acts,
line up with a story being told about him.
It's fascinating.
"My Daughter Providence."
Lamp in the night, still shepherds, each thing poised.
Whole topography poised, bud, leaf, and slipping, husk,
bark poised.
Rilke's form courts death all down the yellow perpetual fire
hills of Spain or California.
Try to remember you can always just sit down,
no matter the habits or confusions.
We can bring you to the coast cypresses one day.
Down there, the jellyfish are thinking hard about you.
Animal, oyster, roe, beef.
Wrapped in a warm feeling, fearing you.
Glory needs to know what people say about the prophet exactly.
Outside, still water and doe piss
and reed straws sucking the lagoon up inside themselves
to share in life.
The people say, sprinkle the unused words to the bottom.
The people say, we are as good as each feather tip of brush
grass reaching into the wind.
The coast is exploding all over the waves.
Leaves are hungry.
I can tell you about it.
I'm trying hard to not forget the lyric part.
The noise you'll welcome is a twin,
the faster cymbals ringing all down the hill.
The ocean swells in from the south,
one wave by the arch rock, the next on its shoulder,
so on to the point.
The point lifts them up.
There are holy women somewhere alive with your techne,
with your name.
Mary meant of the sea, though nothing is still.