Not Driving Final Sweetness To The Grape Poem by gershon hepner

I am not driving final sweetness to the grape,
for all of mine were gathered like wild oats
From melted snows of yesteryear I can’t escape,
because I’ve burned my bridges like my boats,
and yet I am not homeless like poor Rilke
in his poem about autumn, and I hope
to drink dry wine with you, if you’ll be milker
of meanings of the words I write in soap.

Inspired by “Herbstag” by Rainer Maria Rilke,
a poem that Sophie Hingst sent to me in response to my poem “Autumn.”

Herbsttag
Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.
Befiel den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

Rainer Maria Rilke

________________________________________
This translation is by Guntram Deichsel:
Autumn Day
Lord, it is time. Let the great summer go,
Lay your long shadows on the sundials,
And over harvest piles let the winds blow.
Command the last fruits to be ripe;
Grant them some other southern hour,
Urge them to completion, and with power
Drive final sweetness to the heavy grape.
Who's homeless now, will for long stay alone.
No home will build his weary hands,
He'll wake, read, write letters long to friends
And will the alleys up and down
Walk restlessly, when falling leaves dance.

9/23/11 #7893