Poem crack 7

Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

 



The Drunken Boat

As
I was floating down unconcerned Rivers,
I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers:
gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets,
nailing them naked to coloured stakes.

I cared nothing for all my crews,
carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons.
When, along with my haulers,
those uproars were done with,
the Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.

Into the ferocious tide-rips, last winter,
more absorbed than the minds of children,
I ran! And the unmoored Peninsulas
never endured more triumphant clamourings.

The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.
Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves
which men call eternal rollers of victims,
for ten nights, without once missing
the foolish eye of the harbor lights!

Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,
the green water penetrated my pinewood hull
and washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains and the splashes of vomit,

carring away both rudder and anchor.

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem
O of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,
devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,
a dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;

Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses-
deliriums and slow rhythms
under the gleams of the daylight, stronger than alcohol,
vaster than music-ferment the bitter rednesses of love!

I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings,
and the waterspouts, and the breakers and currents;
I know the evening, and Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,
and sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!

I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors
lighting up long violet coagulations
like the performers in antique dramas;
waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!

I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows,
the kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,
the circulation of undreamed-of saps,
and the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!

I have followed, for whole months on end,
the swells battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,
-never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
could muzzle by force the snorting Oceans!

I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas,
where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers in human skins!
Rainbows stretched like bridles
under the seas-horizon to glaucous herds!

I have seen the enormous swamps seething,
traps where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds!
Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm,
and distances cataracting down into abysses!

Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals!
Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs
where the giant snakes, devoured by vermin,
fall from the twisted trees with black odours!

I should have liked to show to children those dolphins
of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fishes.-
Foam of flowers rocked my driftings,
and at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.

Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,
the sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings lifted my shadow-
flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me,
and I hung there like a kneeling woman…

[I was] almost an island, tossing on my beaches the brawls
and droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds.
And I was scudding along when across my frayed cordage
drowned men sank backwards into sleep!…

But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,
hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether;
I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water,
neither Monitor nor Hanse ships would have fished up;

Free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,
I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky
which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious:
lichens of sunlight [mixed] with azure snot;

Who ran, speckled with lunula of electricity,
a crazy plank with black sea-horses for escort,
when Julys were crushing with cudgel blows skies
of ultramarine into burning funnels;

I who trembled to feel at fifty league’s distance
the groans of Behemoth’s rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms;
eternal spinner of blue immobilities,
I long for Europe with it’s age-old parapets!

I have seen archipelagos of stars!
and islands whose delirious skies are open to sailers: –
Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,
O million golden birds, Life Force of the future?

But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.
O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!

If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
black cold pool where into the scented twilight
a child squatting full of sadness launches
a boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.

I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,
sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons;
nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants;
nor pull past the horrible eyes of the hulks.

 

Arthur Rimbaud__Rimbaud
All
Rights Reserved on all Rimbaud Poetry
KEGSPOTTER 2002
No Rights Reserved on All images and information

Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

 



Eternity

It
has been found again.
What ? – Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.

Sentinel soul,
Let us whisper the confession
Of the night full of nothingness
And the day on fire.

From human approbation,
From common urges
You diverge here
And fly off as you may.

Since from you alone,
Satiny embers,
Duty breathes
Without anyone saying : at last.
Here is no hope,
No orietur.
Knowledge and fortitude,
Torture is certain.

It has been found again.
What
? – Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.

May
1872.

Total Eclipse__Arthur Rimbaud
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KEGSPOTTER 2002
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

 



Dawn


I have kissed the summer dawn.
Before the palaces,
nothing moved.
The water lay dead.

Battalions of shadows
still kept the forest road.
I walked, walking warm
and vital breath,
While stones watched,
and wings rose soundlessly.

My first adventure,
in a path already gleaming
With a clear pale light,
Was a flower who told me its name.

I laughed at the blond Waterfall.
That threw its hair across
the pines: On the silvered summit,
I came upon the goddess.

Then one by one, I lifted her veils.
In the long walk, waving my arms.
Across the meadow, where
I betrayed her to the cock.

In the heart of town she fled
among the steeples and domes,
And I hunted her, scrambling
like a beggar on marble wharves.

Above the road, near a thicket of laurel,
I caught her in her gathered veils,
And smelled the scent of her immense body.
Dawn and the child fell together
at the bottom of the wood.
When I awoke, it was noon..

Rimbaud__Poesies / Une Saison en Enfer
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KEGSPOTTER 2002
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

 


The Cupboard

It’s a board
carved wooden cupboard;
the ancient dark-coloured oak
has taken on that pleasant air
that old people have; the cupboard is open,
and gives off from its kindly shadows
inviting aromas like a breath of old wine;
full to overflowing, it’s a jumble of quaint old things:
fragrant yellowed linen,
rags of women’s or children’s clothes, faded laces,
grandmothers’ kerchiefs embroidered with griffins;
– here you could find lockets,
and locks of white or blonde hair,
portraits and dried flowers
whose smell mingles with the smell of fruit. –

O cupboard of old times, you know plenty of stories;
and you’d like to tell them;
and you clear your throat every time
your great dark doors slowly open.

October 70

A Season in Hell / Illuminations__A Season in Hell & Other Works
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KEGSPOTTER 2002
No Rights Reserved on All images and information

Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

 


The Customs Men

Those who
say Gord Struth; those who say Swelp Me –
pensioned soldiers and sailors, the wreckage of Empire –
are nothing, nothing at all, compared with the warriors of Excise
who slash the blue frontiers with their great axe-blows.
Pipes in their teeth, blades in their hands, deep, unruffled,
when darkness noses at the woods like a cow’s muzzle, off they go,
leading their dogs, to hold their nocturnal and terrible revels!
They report the bacchantes to the laws of today.
They clap hands on the shoulders of Fausts and of Devils:
‘Now then, none of that, you old dodgers! Put those bundles down!’
And, when his serene highness accosts the young,
the Customs Man holds fast to all contraband charms!
The Inferno for Offenders whom his hand has frisked!

Illuminaciones - Bilingue__Arthur Rimbaud
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KEGSPOTTER 2002
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

 

STUPRA
>

Dark
and wrinkled like a purple pink, it breathes,
nestling humbly among the still-damp froth
of love that follows the gentle slope
of the white buttocks to its crater’s edge.

Filaments like tears of milk have swept
in the cruel South wind which pushes them
back across little clots of reddish marl
to lose themselves where the slope called them.

My dream has often kissed its opening;
my soul, jealous of physical coitus,
has made this its fawn-coloured
tear-bottle, its nest of sobs.

It is the rapturous olive and the wheedling flute,
the tube from which the heavenly burnt
almond falls, feminine Canaan
enclosed among moistures.

Les :ettres manuscrites de Rimbaud__Poesies / Une Saison en Enfer
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KEGSPOTTER 2002
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

 



Conclusion

The
pigeons which flutter in the meadow,
the game which runs and sees in the dark,
the water animals, the animal enslaved,
the last butterflies!.. also are thirsty.
But to dissolve where that wandering cloud is dissolving –
Oh! Favoured by what is fresh!
To expire in those damp violets
whose awakening fills these woods?

May
1872

A Season in Hell & Illuminations__Je suis ici dans les Gallas
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KEGSPOTTER 2002
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

 


Drunken Coachman

Unwashed

drinks: mother-of-pearls
sees: bitter law (of gravity?),
carriage falls!
Woman tumbles,
loin bleeds:
whimpers. Outcry!
*A.R.


Young Greedyguts

Cap
of silk moir�, little wand of ivory,
Clothes very dark.
Paul watches the cupboard,
sticks out little tongue at pear,
Prepares, gives a poke, and squitters.
* A.R.


Paris

Al
Godillot, Gambier, Galopeau,
Wolf-Pleyel – O Robinets! –
Menier, – O Chirsts! – Leperdriel!
Kinck, Jacob, Bonbonnel!
Veuillot, Tropmann, Augier!
Gill, Mendes, Manuel, Guido Gonin! –
Basket of the Graces! L’Herisse!
Unctuous waxes!
Old loaves, spirits!
Blind men! –
but then who knows? –
Beadles, Enghien. –
In one’s own home!
Let’s be Christian!
* A.R.


The Old Guard

To
the emperor’s peasants!
To the peasants’ emperor!
To the sons of mars,
to the glorious 18 March!
When heaven blessed
the guts of Eugene!
* A.R.

Arthur Rimbaud__Collected Poems
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KEGSPOTTER 2002
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