What happens in the space of absence
Art and what it can evoke
Dear friends,
There’s a famous poem by Rainer Maria Rilke titled “Archaic Torso of Apollo.” It’s a sonnet, so it’s short — just 14 lines long.
It describes looking at the remnants of what once was a complete statue of that Greek god of archery, music, dance, truth, and healing.
We cannot know his legendary head with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso is still suffused with brilliance from inside, like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low, gleams in all its power. Otherwise the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could a smile run through the placid hips and thighs to that dark center where procreation flared. Otherwise this stone would seem defaced beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur: would not, from all the borders of itself, burst like a star: for here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.
From Ahead of All Parting: Selected Poetry and Prose of Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell
The poem starts off by telling us that much of the statue is missing. All that’s left is the torso but that, despite being a fragment of the full sculpture “is still suffused with brilliance from inside / like a lamp” before continuing with more ways of, in essence, saying that it’s not the full piece, but it’s still overwhelming. He speaks of the dazzling chest, the intimate depiction of the hips. (Rilke was probably referring to a statue that is in the Louvre in Paris.)
The poem concerns itself with what is there and what is not. It’s like Rilke is staring at a ghost memory of the full thing, and the effect of the artwork is as powerful as if no fragmentation had taken place — or, daringly, even more powerful, because he’s looking at a body, and in that attention to the body, his own attention is drawn to himself.
So many of us have lost so much, and perhaps all we can do is stare at the ruins of what was once complete. I get it. That’s how it is with me too. It’s true that our attention is drawn to broken things. It doesn’t interest me to try to forget what has been damaged.
Rilke’s poem doesn’t say that there’s a silver lining. What he’s doing is looking — simply and truly, powerfully and carefully — at what actually is, in the here and now, in this moment of time.
He keeps looking, and says that the statue “from all the borders of itself” seems to be bursting “like a star”. I wonder how long he took in looking at this form. What I can guess is it was a long time because it’s like he’s seen back by the statue. Looking at it, something happens in him. The final five words of this poem go beyond the question of admiration of this sculpture and give voice to the strange thing that can happen in us when we give our attention to something powerful, even broken: “You must change your life”.
My question this week is: What transformative experiences have you had in the face of art? It could have happened while watching someone dance or seeing a local production of theatre, a film, a poem, a sculpture, a forgotten exhibition.
I’ll see you in the comments, friends,
Poetry in the World
A list of my events: Online and in the US (Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Rhinebeck, NY; Swarthmore, PA; Atlanta, GA; North Kingstown, RI; Stockbridge, MA) and the UK (Iona, Scotland)
September 4, Manhattan, NY, and Online
Join me in celebrating this year’s edition of The Best American Poetry at the 92nd Street Y at 7 p.m. ET. There will be readings by myself, Elaine Equi, Mary Jo Salter, Catherine Barnett, and others, followed by a book signing. You can purchase either in-person tickets or streaming access here.
September 14, Online
My good friend Marie Howe and I will be discussing poetry and prayer through the Fine Arts Work Center at 4 p.m. Eastern. There’s tiered pricing to attend this online event; you can reserve your spot here.
September 21, Brooklyn, New York
Come find me at the Brooklyn Book Festival in Brooklyn Heights, where I’ll be doing an event. Event information will be posted here.
September 26–28, Rhinebeck, New York, and Online
I am leading a weekend retreat exploring “Strange Stories of the Bible” at Omega Institute. Expect strangeness, swearing, f**ked up stories of families, and literary brilliance. You can join in person or online.
October 10, Swarthmore, Pennsylvania
I’ll be discussing “Poetry and Openness” with Megan McFayden-Mungall, Isadora Caldas, and Vivian Ojo at the 2025 Annual Conference of the Peace and Justice Studies Association at Swarthmore College. You can purchase tickets for the conference here.
October 18, Atlanta, Georgia
I’m leading a retreat day called “Poetry, Prayer, and Place” at The Cathedral of St. Philip. Learn more about the retreat and register here. Tickets at reduced rates are available.
November 14, North Kingstown, Rhode Island
Together with Sophie Cabot Black, I’ll be reading as part of Spencer Reece’s “14 Gold Street Series” Turn up — it’s free, it’s at 5:30 P.M. ET, and the location is here.
December 5–7, Manhattan, New York
I’m thrilled to be part of the Irish Poetry Festival at the Irish Arts Center in Manhattan; I’ll be doing two events: one paid and one free. Tickets and full details here.
December 19–21, Stockbridge, Massachusetts
I’m leading a retreat called “Poetry of Peace” at Kripalu Center for Yoga & Health. More details and registration here.
June 27–July 3, 2026, Iona, Scotland
Krista and I will be leading a week of conversation (with some musical guests) on Iona, an island off an island off the west coast of Scotland. The Saint Columba hotel will be releasing information about it soon; sign up to that list here.
"...for here there is no place/that does not see you..."
This, for me, is the line of Rilke's poem that precisely describes transformation. Monet, in his "Fisherman's Cottage", saw me. Hopper's "Nighthawks" sees me.
A powerful moment of being seen (the ultimate transformative experience) happened in my life about 20 years ago. My oldest child, a daughter, was studying abroad. I was adrift in my own life, having just stepped away from an intense faith and then, by default, a marriage. In the midst of my struggling to piece together and make sense of my new way of being, my daughter sent me a postcard from Spain. Salvador Dali's "Girl at the Window" ("Muchacha en la Ventana"--I am staring now at the tiny postcard framed on my bedroom wall). Painted in the softest hues of beige and blues, is an open window and the solitary figure of a girl staring across the water. Pondering, for certain. Embodying the whole of me in that place and time. The message with the postcard was a simple "I love you." Twenty years later, just a glimpse of the painting allows me to slip into the loneliness of that time. And to the being seen that my daughter offered me.
Well, I am hesitant to share this, but, oh, what the heck!
My first love in school from quite an early age was mathematics. Most people don’t think of math as art, but I’ve been changed by the elegant logic of proofs that there are infinitely many prime numbers, different sizes of infinity, or structure hidden within our number systems that surprises and delights. Not all math is beautiful, but neither is all poetry, painting, dance, literature. Good math, like good art, opens me up to a “more” I’m always hoping to experience. That’s the best I can explain it! :-)