A Willing Intimacy

I found this slim little book quite by mistake a few years back. I was rummaging through the poetry section at a bookstore and this was slid into the wrong place between two larger books, as though someone had considered and then changed his mind. How unfortunate for them, I realize now.

I remembered this name Rilke. Once in awhile, my son Ben would read me a poem that Rilke had written. Each one was unique, and quite beautifully carried fresh images within it of things I think on much of the time, but never ever in his way. Rilke repainted the world for me and I will always be grateful to him. I have since collected much of his poetry.

But this particular little volume is not filled with poems, but with the poet himself. Letters. A book filled with letters in his own hand and from his stored and actively lived ruminations over time. Shared with someone who was seeking all the things he had at last found himself; this older poet to a fledgling poet. It gave, in its true Rilke way, fresh meaning to the glorious struggle; what it is to take on the yoke of “poet”.

The circumstance giving rise to the letters is filled with such a willing intimacy; an intimacy that seems to have almost disappeared from the world, or so it seems to me.

The fledgling poet’s name was Franz Kappus. He was at a military school that year of 1901 and he found himself reading one day, completely absorbed in his book. The chaplain of the school approached to say hello and saw what he was reading: "Ah, Poems of Ranier Maria Rilke. Sooo, our pupil Rene Rilke has become a poet".

‘Rene’ had indeed gone to the same school but did not go on to finish the upper school, as he was not suited to such a life. He ended up in Paris, after living here and there over his life. And, yes indeed, he wrote poetry. He had grown poor and very frail of health, but his inner world was filled with wide and gorgeous landscapes.

Franz decided, on a whim, to write a letter to this poet he was reading and he ended up by inexplicably pouring out his entire heart to him: his fears, fantasies, thoughts, and the deep loneliness he felt even when surrounded by people. He did not really know why he felt so right to reveal his heart to this total stranger. He just knew he must. For Franz was painfully struggling to understand what it meant to be a poet and writer. He took a chance, and off went the letter, in very truth containing a piece of his heart.

And Rilke wrote back!

With courtesy, sympathy and wonderful, wonderful thoughts. These two were meant to meet: one old and worn and sure of many things, at ease with mystery now; the other young and vibrant and searching. As this is something I might just do myself, I was charmed immediately by Franz’s story. This dear man, Rilke, actually wrote back. I loved him already.

And the letters. Each filled with light and insight, expressed with a depth of feeling and kindness so hard to find today. You have to make them last. You feel like you too are in a small Parisian apartment surrounded by books, with flowers and leaves strewn over a table, quietly sitting over cracked demitasse cups of strong and sweet coffee listening to someone who cares deeply about the "ordinary" world around him. There is so much here, it is hard not to try and gulp it all down in one sitting. But you just can't do that.

Here is a small gleaning that made me nod my head in wondering agreement. It made me wish he was still here. I would have written him, myself. I must say I love Franz for his courage in bravely reaching out into the seeming void and then receiving this letter in return. How he must have treasured it.

"...draw near to nature. Then try, like some FIRST human being, to say what you see and experience and love and lose. Save yourself from general themes and seek those which your own everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, passing thoughts,and the belief in some sort of beauty - describe all these with loving, quiet, humble sincerity, and use, to express yourself, the things in your environment, the images from your dreams, and the objects of your memory. If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell your self that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for to the creator there is no poverty and no poor indifferent place. And even if you were in some prison the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses - would you not then still have your childhood, that precious, kingly possession, that treasure-house of memories? Turn your attention thither. Try to raise the submerged sensations of that ample past, your personality will grow more firm, your solitude will widen and will become a dusky dwelling, past which the noise of others goes by far away...."

- Rainer Maria Rilke

We do not speak to one another like this anymore. With all our vast worldwide "communications" and “influencers” who carry on one sided conversations with their computer screens as if gazing into a Narcissistic pool of self. We have perhaps forgotten that a heart can speak to a heart like this without any pretense or insecurity - going to the places where the heart has most need. Actually thinking seriously about something someone has said and caring deeply enough to reply in kind.

Friends had the courage to love deeper in those days. Or so it sometimes seems to me.

I do not feel inclined at this time to have a paid substack. But if we were together in a cafe discussing all these thoughts, I would not be opposed to you buying me a cup of coffee - with cream, of course. In that spirit, if any of my posts resonate with you and you feel so inclined, you can donate here: buymeacoffee.com/denise_trull