Insights of Rilke

By Ridhima Bhagawati

Franz Xaver Kappus was young when he wrote to Rainer Maria Rilke in 1902. 10 letters were written by Rilke addressed to Kappus, which were later published by the latter under the title: “Letters to a Young Poet”. A fitting title. It is a book precisely for young poets to lose and find themselves among its pages. Lewis Hyde says, in the introductory passage of the book: “The letters to a young poet are Rilke’s prayers.” Perhaps, they are in service of calling upon and channelling the divine forces Rilke dabbled in and immersed himself in. If there is one thing I can conclude undoubtedly from this book, it is that Rilke wasn’t afraid of the vague, the infinite, or the incomprehensible. It’s here that I realize Ralph Waldo Emmerson was spot-on when he said that the true poem is the poet’s mind.

17 February, 1903. The first letter:

“Things are not all as graspable and sayable as on the whole we are led to believe; most events are unsayable, occur in a space that no word has ever penetrated, and most unsayable of all are works of art, mysterious existences whose life endures alongside ours, which passes away.” -Rilke, in his letter.

Rilke was fearless. He talks of the unsayable and the non-graspable infinitesimals. This made me realize how comfortable I have gotten within the confines of specificity. Deliver specific arguments, ask for specific definitions, describe your emotions concretely, etc. Even abstract art must have a sharp message. For unlike Rilke, I was never fearless. When something unwrapped and undefined is placed before us, the only way out is to materialize it and give it meaning. These mindless paint strokes are not arbitrary. They are not the random and chaotic manifestations of the soul; the artist is clearly telling a word-to-word story of anxiety and pathos. This poet is not describing merely the fluttering of his heart which spasm randomly and aimlessly. There is always a specific reason for those fluctuations. Every word, no matter how conceptual, can be concretely defined within the English dictionary. But what if there are entities beyond defining? What if there are some concepts which aren’t concepts at all, but more like manifestations of the world? The simple question is, what if not everything needs to have a particular reason and denotation? According to Rilke, it is that vagueness, that lack of a proper understanding of things-such as the reasons behind love or the explanation behind mindless fear-that fuels artwork and makes it eternal. For him, the purpose of art may not be to reflect your inner truth or to give you the answers. It may be to mirror your own cluelessness and your own doubts. It is to give shape to ignorance and nothingness.

“Go into yourself. Examine the reason that bids you to write; check whether it reaches its roots into the deepest region of your heart, admit to yourself whether you would die if it should be denied you to write. This above all: ask yourself in your night’s quietest hour: must I write?”

The second thing I can conclude about Rilke is that he detested criticism in its usual sense. He urged Kappus not to look outward for extrinsic feedback. He felt chasing external validation was like detachment from the true nature of one’s poetry. So, he says, “Go into yourself.” How many people can do that? For if there is one principle of Rilke’s that I am not capable of adhering to, it’s purity of intention. He advocates for pure irony, pure artistry, pure insight. But purity has nothing to do with me. I accepted long ago that nothing can erase ulterior motive from my heart. Everything I do has a motive, everything I feel has an agenda. Pure intention, if anything, is rare. So here, Rilke is demanding too much of someone like me. He wants me to tell myself all the truth, look it in the eye and confront it earnestly. And he wants me to be so utterly pure-intentioned with my own self, that I must admit: Do I need to write? Here’s my answer:

I will not die if I don’t write. But one day, I will wake up only to realize that I did not milk every opportunity sent my way. If I don’t write, I will have wasted the words and images catalogued in my heart. So, in short, I convince myself: Yes. Yes, I do need to write. Not to survive, but to live.

In honour of said sentiment, let’s end this with a poem: 

Speck of Dust

Rare shimmering silhouette,

Dangling from the willow creek,

Every blade of grass on this earth,

Every blade touched by me.

Incinerate and burst, fireworks in my palm,

And let your little light linger.

Capture your story in bubbles and specks

Of dust I capture on my finger.

By Ridhima Bhagawati