I skimmed this some time ago and had thought it unremarkable, but I stumbled upon it again today and I nearly sighed myself off my chair. I still can't figure out what's so sublime about it but it just is. My apologies for the half-or-more of you who must be familiar with this poem already, but here's our beloved older poet again:


Washing the Corpse


They had, for a while, grown used to him. But after
they lit the kitchen lamp and in the dark
it began to burn, restlessly, the stranger
was altogether strange. They washed his neck,

and since they knew nothing about his life
they lied till they produced another one,
as they kept washing. One of them had to cough,
and while she coughed she left the vinegar sponge,

dripping, upon his face. The other stood
and rested for a minute. A few drops fell
from the stiff scrub-brush, as his horrible
contorted hand was trying to make the whole
room aware that he no longer thirsted.

And he did let them know. With a short cough,
as if embarrassed, they both began to work
more hurriedly now, so that across
the mute, patterned wallpaper their thick

shadows reeled and staggered as if bound
in a net, till they had finished washing him.
The night, in the uncurtained window-frame,
was pitiless. And one without a name
lay clean and naked there, and gave commands.

- Rainer Maria Rilke, from New Poems

[trans. by Stephen Mitchell]


Matt, John, Eunice, or anyone else: have you heard the new Philip Glass album? Would you recommend it?

posted by Tae-Yeoun Keum   [3:35 AM]

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