The word “archaic” in the poem’s title resonates in different ways. It refers specifically to the Archaic period in ancient Greek art from 600 to 480 B.C.E., when it was standard for sculptures of human figures to have a smiling face. In fact, that type of expression is called The Archaic Smile.
But the word “archaic” is also partly ironic in the title of this poem, since nothing could be as immediate as this
statue the way Rilke describes it. The poem is contemporary in its diction, but
it’s a Petrarchan sonnet, another fusion of opposites. I’ve tried in this new
version of Rilke’s most frequently translated poem to bring out the poem’s oddly
indirect directness (almost every statement except the last is a negative).
I’ve also tried to include the poem’s sensuality, often censored in
translation. To emphasize the impact of the poem’s last phrase, I’ve brought it
into contemporary English. Here’s my translation:
 |
| Greek statue with "The Archaic Smile" |
Archaic Torso of
Apollo
by Rainer Maria
Rilke
We’ll never know
the incredible head
where his eyes
ripen like apples. No,
but that torso is
a lamp, and in its glow
his gaze does
appear, turned down instead,
but hovering,
glistening. Otherwise the arc of his breast
wouldn’t dazzle
you, and in the slight
twist of his
loins a smile wouldn’t alight
in the center,
where the virile parts nest.
Otherwise this
stone would be stunted, marred
under those
shoulders that plunge hard,
wouldn’t flicker
like a wild animal’s coat;
wouldn’t burst
from its edges, knife
like a star:
there’s nowhere on him so remote
it doesn’t see
you: you’ve got to change your life.
(translation ©
2017 by Zack Rogow)
“Archaic
Torso of Apollo” derives its force from a particular electricity generated when
the directness of life collides with the distance of art. The one object Rilke
describes in this poem, an ancient Greek statue of a male torso that he saw in the Louvre Museum in Paris, combines the vitality of the body and ripe fruit
(the apple eyes) with the world of ancient art.
To
me it seems that Rilke is deliberately emphasizing the sensuality of this
statue, drawing our attention to its breast and crotch, comparing its glow to
the pelt of a predatory beast.
The
torso in Rilke’s poem may be buff, but it’s beheaded and de-sexed. It has
neither the power of thought, nor the virility of its genitals, nor lips to
kiss, nor arms to hold or legs to clench.
Then
why does this broken block of stone mean that we must change our lives—demand that we change our lives? Rilke
begins by telling us we can’t see the statue’s eyes, but then reverses
direction by saying the torso can see
us, with its nipples like eyes and its pelvis curving upward in a knowing
smile. The poem continually picks up momentum as it displays the miracle of a
headless body that looks at us, smiles at us, even pierces us with its
invisible glance. The poem tells us that art strips us bare, throws light on
the deepest caverns of our souls, and only when we accept that are we ready to
change our lives and begin the trek of our destiny. But that knowledge also
produces a smile, even in the most unlikely place: a headless torso.
Other posts on Rilke:
Rilke's "Autumn Day"
Learning from Rilke, Part 1
Other recent posts about writing topics:
Rilke's "Autumn Day"
Learning from Rilke, Part 1
Other recent posts about writing topics:
