Someday, when I lose you, will you be able to sleep without my whispering myself away like a Lyndon's crown above you?

Without my waking here and laying down words, almost like eyelids, upon your breast, upon your limbs, upon your mouth,

without my closing you and leaving you alone with one is yours in the garden and mass of this story deals no way going to get my medicine sky's your name Entitled opinions. In title, Scouts of your Ungray of a lonely

man.

Entitled opinions coming to you from the Garden of Melissus

on the margins of history,

but not detached from history.

The topic of our show today is Rainer Maria Rilke,

the poet of soft solitudes, the poet of praise, the poet of

elegy and birth, but above all the poet of autumn's descent into earth.

The leaves are falling, falling as from far off, distant gardens withered in the sky, and in the nights the heavy earth is falling from all the stars

down into loneliness.

How many times does Rilke do that from one verse to the next

expand a local scene to a cosmic scale?

Rainer Maria Rilke, the inflationary cosmologist,

the poet whose liar quivers the strings of the universe.

Passing the head in church,

it never stops going red.

I love Rilke as much as anyone, his orphic incantations find their way into recondite layers of my psyche.

Yet for years I've hesitated to do a show on him, believing that anything one could say about him in such a form would only blunt the subtle reverberations of his poetry.

But Rilke himself in his ninth elegy declares,

Here is the time for the utterable, here is its country. Speak and acknowledge.

...