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Make me ßelieve

I’ve only just begun the “new poems” of (Rainer Maria) Rilke and already I’m depressed. For I comprehend little and understand less.

Albeit, Ich spreche Deutsch sehr gut nicht., it is obvious from glancing over at the original text that Rilke’s words were meant to rest like liquid upon the tongue, for there is rhythm to be sung in them there words. Yet, in Snow’s English they clink, they clank, they clunk.

Moreover, the poet’s intended subtleties, the esoteric symmetries, the fey allusions, and the delusional art of life as purported by verse all seemingly do not translate well, as well.

So, hence, thus, I feel a little down, and frown upon words which sound nothing like the fabled poetry I had eagerly anticipated; the mythical, charm and chime of Germanic sense and rhyme, the sensual swoon of a young maven whose genius has long captivated the bohemian imagination with ethereal words that make-believe what once was the world of Rilke.

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