Rilke wrote a poem
about a woman going blind
about a woman at a dinner party
her eyes connected to her memory of shapes of light
and footfalls
and how to hold her cup
a hesitating woman you may have seen
as she lightly found her way
across the cobblestones of Prague
towards the Vltava.
Rilke did not know
that I am that woman going blind
with my slow journey away from the dining table
cautiously behind the others
stretching time into small eternities.
Rilke did not know
how frightened the woman going blind felt
how her abundant world
seemed to shrink into small bits:
placing her fork on the plate
remembering how many steps there are to reach the
bottom of the stair
managing to sit in the lap of a chair.
Rilke did not know how her heart ached
each time someone offered an arm to hold
how her self-sense slipped into burden-hood
or how she lived with the fire hot fear
of not being able to know
her newly born grand-baby.
Rilke did not know
how her fears risk destroying her soul
how she wished she were dead
eyes were dead after all.
Rilke did not know me.
Or did he?
He wrote of the radiance of the blind woman’s eyes
Rilke saw that she may fly where others only walked
when the others walked and talked
light played on her eyes only.
Rilke saw inside her light filled soul
He knew how precious one footfall could be for me
how cool the globe of a wine glass would feel to my small hand
how long it would take me to walk from one room to another
and once arrived feel the accomplishment of it all.
Rilke knew my constant renewing delight
at the tiniest drop of light
magnified under the cloudless sky
perhaps a blade of meadow grass
a simple blade of grass
holding just one drop of dew on the tip
a drop in the shape of a globe
to light my world
to guide me from here to there
to fill my eyes with all the possibilities of the rest of my life
to feel love in the light touch of a hand
blindness makes the soul easier to see
Rilke wrote a poem…
***
Rainier Maria Rilke wrote a poem titled “A Woman Going Blind” (Die Erblindende)
Die Erblindende — Rainer Maria Rilke
Sie saß so wie die anderen beim Tee.
Mir war zuerst, als ob sie ihre Tasse
ein wenig anders als die anderen fasse.
Sie lichelte einmal. Es tat fast weh.
Und als man schließlich sich erhob und sprach
und langsam und wie es der Zufall brachte
durch viele Zimmer ging (man sprach und lachte),
da sah ich sie. Sie ging den andern nach,
verhalten, so wie eine, welche gleich
wird singen miissen und vor vielen Leuten;
auf ihren hellen Augen, die sich freuten,
war Licht von außen wie auf einem Teich.
Sie folgte langsam, und sie brauchte lang,
als wire etwas noch nicht überstiegen;
und doch: als ob nach einem tibergang,
sie nicht mehr gehen wiirde, sondern fliegen.
