Filed by Lance at 10:41 pm under General, Love, Religion, Stuff to Read, The Arts

I remember a story told about one of my favorite composers, Arvo Pärt, that when he was just beginning his career, he went to see a monk. He told the monk, “I would like to learn to write prayers, because I think it could help my music.”

The monk said, “No, no. Every prayer has already been written.”

If you listen to Pärt’s music, which relies heavily on Christian religious texts and Psalms, you’ll certainly agree this idea has influenced him tremendously.

On my way out the door this evening, I grabbed a book to read on the ‘L.’ I haven’t read from this particular one in a long time, but a poem in it struck me. It’s a poem by a man named Justinus Kerner. As I read it over several times, I reflected that there were points in my life when I would have loved to have written this poem. Not right now, but there have been moments in my life, when if I could plant a seed with what I was thinking and feeling, Der Einsame might have grown with the help of some water and sunlight.

I thought of Mr. Pärt, and his conversation with the monk. It is certainly important we embrace new work and new writing, but it’s nice to know that whatever phase of life we’re in, someone has been there, and has left a record of it. That prayer has already been written, and there can be tremendous power in speaking it again.

Here’s the poem, a quick and dirty translation, too:

Der Einsame

Wohl gehest du an Liebeshand,
Ein überselger Mann;
Ich geh’ allein, doch mit mir geht,
Was mich beglücken kann.

Es ist des Himmels heilig Blau,
Der Auen Blumenpracht,
Einsamer Nachtigallen Schlag
In alter Wälder Nacht.

Es ist der Wolke stiller Lauf,
Lebend’ger Wasser Zug,
Der grünen Saaten wogend Meer
Und leichter Vögel Flug.

Du ruhst im zarten Frauenarm,
Am Rosenmund voll Duft;
Einsam geh’ ich, im Mantel spielt
Die kühle Abendluft.

Es kommt kein Wandrer mehr des Wegs,
Der Vogel ruht im Baum;
Ich schreite durch die düstre Nacht,
In mir den hellsten Traum.

The Lonely

You gladly hold your lover’s hand
A blessed man;
I go alone, yet with me goes
That which enlivens me.

It is the holy blue of heaven,
The flowers’ glory in the fields,
The lonely song of nightingales
In the night of ancient forests.

It is the still progression of a cloud,
A lively water stream,
The undulating sea of greeny sowing,
The easy flight of birds.

You rest in gentle woman’s arms,
The fragrance of her rosy mouth,
I go alone, and in my mantle plays
The frigid evening air.

There comes no wanderer on his way,
The bird rests in his tree.
I press on through the dreary night,
In me the brightest dream.