Duino Elegies, "First Elegy," read by Tracie Morell

First Elegy, from Rainer Maria Rilke's Duino Elegies [translated by David Young]

My favorite writer of words who is still of this earth.

The Republic Of Poetry By Martin Espada read by Tracie Morell

It's Stephen Dunn.  He needs no introduction.

Here And Now By Stephen Dunn read by Tracie Morell

Intention By Shawn King

I Am Much Too Alone In This World, Yet Not Alone Enough, Rilke

Physics of Orbiting Flesh by Tracie Morell, read by Andre Schlauch

Schattentänzer Cannot Be Made Light of

If I cried out
who would hear me up there
among the angelic orders?
And suppose one suddenly 
took me to his heart
I would shrivel
I couldn’t survive
next to his 
greater existence.
		~Rilke trans. by David Young

Just another empty cage stands alone 
in the comfort of a dark 

cliff.  Schattentänzer can feel 
the closest distance—how it grows 

and grows till there is so much space 
in the work of breathing.  I’ve got to have 

my suffering, so I can 
withstand the weight of that 

cross that is solely mine to bear.  It’s funny 
how distance learns to grow.  In a terrible act 

of courage, I did cry out, seducing 
a treacherous thing to come to me.  It defined 

beautiful love.  Maybe it was an angel or some God 
made of man.  Indeed, I did shrivel just like 

the poem had warned.  This human flesh is 
always rejected that greater existence.  Beauty knows 

its destructive nature—it only resides in moments 
that pass the hand as little grains of sand 

too small to notice by the naked eye.  God, sometimes 
you just don’t come through.  I have 

stitched the fabric of my existence sometimes 
where the wind blows, moans, shrieks in the darkest 

landscape.  Tell me, someone out there, of crazy 
and maybe I will understand.  Gods and angels work 

in league to disassemble all that’s mortal, yet it’s 
the wind and water which erode any of the Earth’s 

permanence.  Nothing lasts, so I cry 
out on the wailing cliffs at Duino 

where the wind keeps me from falling 
while I lean out ailing to hear myself more completely 

in the fissures of my skull.  The words come 
to me.  Every letter later written on a tattered notebook exists 

from the coursing blood just below my finger’s skin, 
all while—as a life—I become less living 

with every deep breath guiding the strokes 
of my pen: that tap, tap, tapping on the keys 

to the rhythm of my heart pounding out a battle 
march.  If instead of wind, should I stand in fire 

being the quick flicker of a dying flame, the Shadow 
Dancer can only be seen the instant darkness licks the ether 

making me no less a shadow, even as I balance 
posed as the Lord 

of Dance, Natarajasana, with the searing wisdom of rocks 
ablaze under my footing, I am 

still what I am, until I am no more.  


Schattentänzer Cannot Be Made Light of

Desideratum

There are very few things we really need in life. Poetry is one of them. I could tell you about my accolades, but they really don't mean a damn thing (other than a good stroke to my ego, and no one is interested in inflated egos). If you want to know if I'm any good, read my work and judge for yourself.

Tracie Morell

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