Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,

then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can't imagine

how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.

even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard, I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

Rilke, from the Book of Hours:

I am too alone in the world,

and yet not alone enough

to make every hour holy.

I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough

just to stand before you like a thing,

dark and shrewd.

and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times,

when something is approaching,

I want to be with those who are wise

or else alone.

I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being,

and never to be too blind or too old

to hold your heavy, swaying image.

I want to unfold.

Nowhere do I want to remain folded,

because where I am bent and folded, there I am a lie.

And I want my meaning

true for you. I want to describe myself

like a word I finally understood,

like the pitcher of water I use every day ,

like the face of my mother,

like a ship

that carried me

through the deadliest storm of all.

....................................................................................................................

our work needs to be independent of others' work.

No one can help you. You have to help yourself.

Criticism leads to misunderstandings and defeatism.

Work from necessity and your compulsion to do it.

Don't let yourself be controlled by too much irony.

Live in and love the activity of your work.

Be free of thoughts of sin, guilt and misgiving.

Love your solitude and try to sing with its pain.

Your inner self is worth your entire concentration.

Allow your art to make extraordinary demands on you.

Bear your sadness with greater trust than your joy.

Do not persecute yourself with how things are going.

It's good to be solitary, because solitude is difficult.

You are not a prisoner of anything or anyone.

—Rilke