This is not a week for poetry, not my own anyway, or writing. I've tried, God knows I've tried. I've been taking the laptop to bed with me at night and sit up and stare at the screen until my eyes water from exhaustion or things and I shut the hum down, disappear. I am in an uncomfortable state of unrest. The apartment is cleaner than it has been in months and I'm seriously considering rearranging my furniture. I went for a massage yesterday but it did very little to alleviate the tension in my shoulders or back, I'm having muscle spasms like crazy. Whine whine, pace, pace. The rain at night is something lovely.
Here is some Rilke that does it good, from The Book of Hours, Book of Monastic Life:
I am too alone in the world, yet not alone enough
to make each hour holy.
I'm too small in the world, yet not small enough
to be simply in your presence, like a thing--
just as it is.
I want to know my own will
and to move with it.
And I want, in the hushed moments
when the nameless draws near,
to be among the wise ones--
I want to unfold.
Let no place in me hold itself closed,
for where I am closed, I am false.
I want to stay clear in your sight.
I would describe myself
like a landscape I've studied
at length, in detail;
like a word I'm coming to understand;
like a pitcher I pour from at mealtime;
like my mother's face;
like a ship that carried me
when the waters raged.