"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations

"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti


[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]


Showing posts with label The Last Supper. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Last Supper. Show all posts

Monday, August 5, 2024

The Last Supper, by Rainer Maria Rilke


DaVinci's Last Supper


The Last Supper

by Rainer Maria Rilke

Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

Upon seeing Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper", Milan 1904,
the unnamed poet wrote the following verses:



They are assembled, astonished and disturbed
round him, who like a sage resolved his fate,
and now leaves those to whom he most belonged,
leaving and passing by them like a stranger.
The loneliness of old comes over him
which helped mature him for his deepest acts;
now will he once again walk through the olive grove,
and those who love him still will flee before his sight.

To this last supper he has summoned them,
and (like a shot that scatters birds from trees)
their hands draw back from reaching for the loaves
upon his word: they fly across to him;
they flutter, frightened, round the supper table
searching for an escape. But he is present
everywhere like an all-pervading twilight-hour.

Here they are gathered, wondering and deranged,
Round Him, who wisely doth Himself inclose,
And who now takes Himself away, estranged,
From those who owned Him once, and past them
flows.
He feels the ancient loneliness to-day
That taught Him all His deepest acts of love;
Now in the olive groves He soon will rove,
And these who love Him all will flee away.

To the last supper table He hath led.
As birds are frightened from a garden-bed
By shots, so He their hands forth from the bread
Doth frighten by His word: to Him they flee;
Then flutter round the table in their fright
And seek a passage from the hall. But He
Is everywhere, like dusk at fall of night.


by Rainer Maria Rilke


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Analysis (ai)

This poem explores themes of abandonment and loneliness through the lens of Jesus's Last Supper. It captures the disciples' confusion and fear as Jesus prepares to depart, highlighting their sense of isolation and impending loss. The poem's imagery of a "shot" and "birds" conveys the sudden and disruptive nature of Jesus's words, while the twilight-like atmosphere suggests an all-encompassing sense of mystery and foreboding. In comparison to Rilke's other works, this poem exhibits a similar preoccupation with the human condition and the transformative power of art. It also reflects the modernist sensibility of the early 20th century, characterized by fragmentation, ambiguity, and a fascination with the inner workings of the mind.

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Commentary by Patrick Comerford

Rilke’s haunting images focus on the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety: themes that tend to position him as a transitional figure between the traditional and the modernist poets. He wrote this poem after seeing Leonardi Da Vinci’s ‘Last Supper’ in Milan in 1904, and this translation of the poem is by Albert Ernest Fleming.

René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke (1875-1926), better known as Rainer Maria Rilke, was a Bohemian-Austrian poet, and is considered one of the most significant poets in the German language.

He was born in Prague on 4 December 1875 in Prague, which was then the capital of Bohemia, which was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

He wrote in both verse and a highly lyrical prose. He is probably best-known to English-language readers for his Duino Elegies. TS Eliot says, reading Rilke’s ‘Duino Elegies,’ it is not important that we agree with the muddle of his life-philosophy – but only see into the poetic rhetoric he exhorts and exults in.

Rilke’s two most famous prose works are the Letters to a Young Poet and the semi-autobiographical Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

He also wrote more than 400 poems in French, dedicated to his homeland of choice, the Swiss canton of Valais, although he called two places his home – Bohemia and Russia. He died on 29 December 1926 in Montreaux, Switzerland.

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Poet Rainer Maria Rilke

Famous poet /1875-1926 • Ranked #22 in the top 500 poets


Rainer Maria Rilke is considered one of the most lyrically intense German-language poets. His work spans the late 19th and early 20th centuries, bridging the gap between the traditional Romantic era and the rising tide of Modernism. Rilke’s enduring appeal stems from his ability to capture the complexities of human emotion and the search for meaning in an increasingly uncertain world.

His poetry is characterized by a profound sensitivity to the subtle nuances of language. He explored themes of love, loss, faith, and the nature of existence, often through the use of evocative imagery and symbolism. Rilke's exploration of inwardness, his focus on subjective experience, and his experimentation with form and language, prefigured many aspects of Modernist poetry.

His influence can be seen in the works of other poets who grappled with existential questions and sought new modes of expression, including T.S. Eliot, W.B. Yeats, and Marina Ivanova Tsvetaeva. Rilke’s legacy continues to inspire readers and writers today, inviting them to confront the fundamental questions of existence and to find solace and beauty in the face of uncertainty.
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The Last Supper, by Jack Stewart


DaVinci's Last Supper


The Last Supper
by Jack Stewart
February 28, 2017


Pieces of torn bread on the tablecloth.
Plates empty in front of them as if they
have just removed the halos they will wear
in a few years. Jesus holds out his arms
like he is scolding them for such a mess.
They look startled, like they are seeing it
for the first time: it couldn’t be their fault.

Leonardo claimed this is the moment
of Christ’s announcement of betrayal,
and of course it is not clear who Judas is.
But what I notice is the wine—or seeming
lack of it. No goblets. No chalice.
The grail no bigger than a shot glass.

Yet somehow that makes sense.
That makes sense. A bartender measures
as reminder of the power that he serves.
We sip liqueurs between our fingertips.
It takes so little to be satisfied.
It takes so little to linger
in camaraderie. Only a heartbeat
of belief is necessary.
By small increments we learn to taste.



*Jack Stewart attended the University of Alabama and Emory University, where he received his doctorate, and was a Brittain Fellow at the Georgia Institute of Technology. His work has appeared in Poetry, Dark Horse Review, Gettysburg Review, Southern Humanities Review, and other journals and anthologies. He currently lives in Montgomery, Alabama, with his wife and two daughters, and teaches at the Montgomery Academy.


COMMENTARY

This poem is a meditation on Leonardo da Vinci’s famous painting, “The Last Supper.” But the meditation moves in an unexpected direction. The first stanza stays with the painting, though with a comical interpretation of “torn bread” scattered on the tablecloth. In stanza two, the poet moves to the wine—“or seeming / lack of it.” In the painting, no chalice is visible—nothing “bigger than a shot glass.” It’s from this image of a shot glass that the poem’s speaker takes off in stanza three. He seems to be pondering its meaning, as he twice says “that makes sense.” What makes sense now to the speaker is that a single shot of liquor suffices: it reveals “the power” that a bartender serves (as Jesus serves God?); it is sufficient for lingering camaraderie. From here, the speaker reflects on other smallnesses that are sufficient in life: “Only a heartbeat /of belief is necessary.” And “by small increments we learn to taste.” To taste what? The poem doesn’t say, but in the context of the de Vinci painting, I recall a song that we often sing during Communion in my Catholic parish: “Taste and See the Goodness of the Lord.”

- Peggy Rosenthal

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The Last Supper, by Lydia Sigourney

Poet Lydia Sigourney (1791-1865)

Wikipedia - Lydia Huntley Sigourney (September 1, 1791 – June 10, 1865), née Lydia Howard Huntley, was an American poet, author, and publisher during the early and mid 19th century. She was commonly known as the "Sweet Singer of Hartford." She had a long career as a literary expert, publishing 52 books and in over 300 periodicals in her lifetime. While some of her works were signed anonymously, most of her works were published with just her married name Mrs. Sigourney. During the lyceum movement that flourished in the United States in the 19th century, women named literary societies and study clubs in her honor.

 



THE LAST SUPPER
A PICTURE BY LEONARDI DA VINCI


Behold that countenance, where grief and love
Blend with ineffable benignity,
And deep, unuttered majesty divine.

        Whose is that eye which seems to read the heart,
And yet to have shed the tear of mortal woe?—
Redeemer, is it thine?—And is this feast,
Thy last on earth?—Why do the chosen few,
Admitted to thy parting banquet, stand
As men transfixed with horror?—

                                                               Ah! I hear
The appalling answer, from those lips divine,
"One of you shall betray me."—

                                                               One of these?—
Who by thy hand was nurtured, heard thy prayers,
Received thy teachings, as the thirsty plant
Turns to the rain of summer?—One of these!—
Therefore, with deep and deadly paleness droops
The loved disciple, as if life's warm spring
Chilled to the ice of death, at such strange shock
Of unimagined guilt.—See, his whole soul
Concentered in his eye, the man who walked
The waves with Jesus, all impetuous prompts
The horror-struck inquiry,—"Is it I?


Lord!—Is it I?" while earnest pressing near,
His brother's lip, in ardent echo seems
Doubting the fearful thought.—With brow upraised,
Andrew absolves his soul of charge so foul,
And springing eager from the table's foot,
Bartholomew bends forward, full of hope,
That by his ear, the Master's awful words
Had been misconstrued.—To the side of Christ,
James in the warmth of cherished friendship clings,
Yet trembles as the traitor's image steals
Into his throbbing heart:—while he, whose hand
In sceptic doubt was soon to probe the wounds
Of Him he loved, points upward to invoke
The avenging God.—Philip, with startled gaze,
Stands in his crystal singleness of soul,
Attesting innocence, while Matthew's voice
Repeating fervently the Master's words
Rouses to agony the listening group,
Who, half incredulous with terror, seem
To shudder at his accents.

                                                  All the twelve
With strong emotion strive, save one false breast
By Mammon seared, which brooding o'er its gain,
Weighs thirty pieces with the Saviour's blood.
Son of perdition!—dost thou freely breathe
In such pure atmosphere?—And canst thou hide,
'Neath the cold calmness of that settled brow,
The burden of a deed whose very name
Thus strikes thy brethren pale?—

                                                             But can it be
That the strange power of this soul-harrowing scene
Is the slight pencil's witchery?—I would speak
Of him who pour'd such bold conception forth
O'er the dead canvas.—But I dare not muse,
Now, of a mortal's praise.—Subdued I stand


In thy sole, sorrowing presence, Son of God!—
I feel the breathing of those holy men,
From whom thy gospel, as on angel's wing
Went out, through all the earth.—I see how deep
Sin in the soul may lurk, and fain would kneel
Low at thy blessed feet, and trembling ask—
"Lord!—is it I?"

                                   For who may tell, what dregs
Do slumber in his breast.—Thou, who didst taste
Of man's infirmities, yet bar his sins
From thine unspotted soul, forsake us not,
In our temptations, but so guide our feet,
That our Last Supper in this world may lead
To that immortal banquet by thy side,
Where there is no betrayer.


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