A Found (and Kept) Poem

Rilke 1, 17 from Book of Hours: Love Poems to God

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth—
it's she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.
In the softness of the evening
it's you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.


Nearly fifteen years ago I came across this poem that Rainer Maria Rilke wrote in his early twenties. The first time I read it, my heart confiscated it. I latched onto it because something deep inside me knew that it was meant for me. Its every phrase, every image, felt familiar--as if Rilke had envisioned me, who would be born nearly forty years after his death, as its muse and recipient. I know this sounds absolutely presumptuous, but I don't care. Poems are meant to be stolen--swallowed, even. Every poet knows that their craft demands generosity; once their words are received by a hearer or reader, they can never be reclaimed. That is one of poetry's gifts. I resonated with Hours 1, 17, fifteen years ago, and I resonate with it now. I am also struck by its simple yet haunting language. It reminds me of something Rilke himself came to understand: "you" is not the god of religion but the human soul. No wonder it continues to feel so familiar.