Rilke’s « Les Trois Porteuses » : « La Porteuse de Fleurs »

​Three Hands, Vincent van Gogh, c.1884; Nunen / Nuenen, Netherlands. Public domain

The Flower Carrier
They no longer belong to me, my hands,
they belong to the flowers I’ve just gathered;
may these flowers, with an imagination so pure,
invent another being for these hands
that are no longer mine. Then,
obedient, I will set myself beside him,
beside that being. Curious about my old hands,
I will leave him no more, listening to him
with all my heart, before he says to me:
O Light One.
  
La Porteuse de Fleurs
Elles ne sont plus à moi, mes mains,
elles sont à ces fleurs que je viens de cueillir ;
puissent-elles, ces fleurs à l'imagination si pure,
inventer un autre être à ces mains
qui ne sont plus miennes. Alors,
obéissante, je me mettrai à côté de lui,
à côté de cet être, curieuse de mes mains anciennes
et je ne le quitterai plus l'écoutant
de tout mon cœur, avant qu'il ne me dise :
ô Légère.
 
I’ve been thinking about a trio of Rilke’s French poems for awhile—« La Porteuse de Fleurs » (the flower carrier), « La Porteuse de Fruits » (the fruit carrier), and « La Porteuse de L’Eau » (the water carrier). Each represents an interesting point of view based on imaginative mental and emotional experiences.

« La Porteuse de Fleurs » attracted my interest because of the odd conceit it’s built around, the flower carrier’s fantasy that her hands can be reimagined by the flowers they carry as belonging to a being the flowers invent. She will place herself by his side, obey him, stick with him, all because her old hands on his arms attract her curiosity. And she will listen to him (silently, I imagine) until he says, “O Light One.” What he means by that, whether it is the consummation of their relationship or its breaking point, I do not know. Perhaps Rilke is playing with the expression, found in English and French, “to give one’s hand in marriage.”

As I read poems, I often ponder the experiences that give rise to them. Imagining someone else in possession of your hands—is that a whimsical flight or verbal wit (literalizing the giving of hands in marriage) or is it based on some experience or perception?

​On several occasions a year or so ago, as I was falling asleep, I experienced the sensation of losing connection with my hands: they drifted away from my wrists and floated in the air an inch or two away.

The Separate Life of Hands
 Sometimes the hands
detaching from my wrists
float free as I am falling
asleep--
           Thumbs relaxed
unopposing
fingers half curled

drift out of the world
empty of desire
                       ungrasping
pencil or key
                       untasked
hovering in place, aimless
thick-veined idling hands
taking their rest

weightless in the air
unfolding in prayer
 
 
The poem's title is from Hermann Broch, Death of Virgil.


Posted 15 Jan 2025. Please send comments to [email protected].