Anenome

Unknown

Anenome

In the meadow the anemone

is creaking open to the dawn.

By noon, the sky’s polyphony

will flood her white lap till she drowns.

The tiny muscle in her star

is tensed to open to the All,

yet the daylight’s blast so deafens her

she barely heeds the sunset’s call

or finds the willpower to refurl

her petal-edges – her, the power

and will of how many other worlds.

In our violence, we outlive her.

But which new life will see us flower

and face the skies, as true receivers?

Rilke

“The sky’s polyphony.” I had to look that up to make sure I had it right. Polyphony = ‘the style of simultaneously combining a number of parts, each forming an individual melody and harmonizing with each other”. So does that make the anenome like an open ear? Is she listening to the music of the spheres? Rilke calls her a star, so that makes her an earth-star receiving messages from a sky-star. And though delicate, she takes everything in, something we “in our violence” don’t do though we outlive her. The thing that speaks to me most is the question whether we also can flower and become “true receivers.” It's against our nature to receive. We want to act, accomplish, conquer – hence our “violence”. But the anenome shows us that a life of beauty, though breathtakingly short and fragile, is in fully opening ourselves, listening, and receiving. Can we do it? Rilke doesn’t know.

 

Spanish Dancer

John Singer Sargent,"El Jaleo"

Spanish Dancer

As a lit match flickers in the hands

Before it flames, and darts out from all sides

Bright, twitching tongues, so, ringed by growing bands

Of spectators - she, quivering, glowing stands

Poised tensely for the dance - then forward glides

And suddenly becomes a flaming torch.

Her bright hair flames, her burning glances scorch,

And with a daring art at her command

Her whole robe blazes like a fire-brand 

From which is stretched each naked arm, awake,

Gleaming and rattling like a frightened snake.

And then, as though the fire fainter grows,

She gathers up the flame - again it glows,

As with a proud gesture and imperious air

She flings it to the earth; and it lies there

Furiously flickering and crackling still -

Then haughtily victorious, but with sweet

Swift smile of greeting, she puts forth her will

And stamps the fire out with her small firm feet.

Rainer Maria Rilke

She's on fire! You only need to watch a flamenco dancer once to know how accurate this poem is. I recommend you do just that. See if I'm not right.