Poems crack 2

 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY



War

When
a child, certain skies sharpened my vision:

all their characters were reflected in my face.

The Phenomena were roused.

— At present, the eternal inflection of moments

and the infinity of mathematics

drives me through this world where

I meet with every civil honor,

respected by strange children

and prodigious affections.

— I dream of a War of right and of might,

of unlooked-for logic.

It is as simple as a musical phrase.

Lettres du Harare__A Season in Hell & Illuminations
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Winter Festival

The
cascade resounds behind operetta huts.

Fireworks prolong, through the orchards

and avenues near the Meander,–

the greens and reds of the setting sun.

Horace nymphs with First Empire headdresses,–

Siberian rounds and Boucher’s Chinese ladies.

Arthur Rimbaud: Le voleur de Feu__Arthur Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Song
of the Highest Tower

Idle
youth

Enslaved to everything,

By being too sensitive

I have wasted my life.

Ah ! Let the time come

When hearts are enamoured.

I said to myself : let be,

And let no one see you :

Do without the promise

Of higher joys.

Let nothing delay you,

Majestic retirement.

I have endured so long

That I have forgotten everything ;

Fear and suffering

Have flown to the skies.

And morbid thirst

Darkens my veins.

Thus the meadow

Given over to oblivion,

Grown up, and flowering

With frankincense and tares

To the wild buzzing

Of a hundred filthy flies.

Oh ! the thousand bereavements

Of the poor soul

Which possesses only the image

Of Our Lady ! Can one pray

To the Virgin Mary ?

Idle youth

Enslaved by everything,

By being too sensitive

I have wasted my life.

Ah ! Let the time come

When hearts are enamoured !

May
1872.

Rimbaud__Illuminations
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Metropolitan

From
the indigo straits to Ossian’s seas,

on pink and orange sands washed by the vinous sky,

crystal boulevards have just risen and crossed,

immediately occupied by poor young families

who get their food at the greengrocers’.

Nothing rich.– The city! From the bituminous desert,

in headlong flight with the sheets of fog spread

in frightful bands across the sky,

that bends, recedes, descends,

formed by the most sinister black smoke

that Ocean in mourning can produce,

flee helmets, wheels, boats, rumps.–

The battle! Raise your eyes: that arched wooden bridge;

those last truck gardens of Samaria; those faces reddened

by the lantern lashed by the cold night;

silly Undine in her noisy dress, down by the river;

those luminous skulls among the rows of peas,–

and all the other phantasmagoria– the country.

Roads bordered by walls and iron fences

that with difficulty hold back their groves,

and frightful flowers probably called loves and doves,

Damask damning languorously,– possessions of magic

aristocracies ultra-Rhinish, Japanese, Guaranian,

still qualified to receive ancestral music– and there are inns

that now never open anymore,–

there are princesses, and if you are not too overwhelmed,

the study of the stars– the sky.

The morning when with Her you struggled among

the glittering of snow, those green lips,

those glaciers, black banners and blue beams,

and the purple perfumes of the polar sun.– Your strength.

Arthur Rimbaud: Le voleur de Feu__Arthur Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

The Seekers of Lice

When the
child’s forehead, full of red torments,

Implores the white swarm of indistinct dreams,

There come near his bed two tall charming sisters

With slim fingers that have silvery nails.

They seat the child in front of a wide open

Window where the blue air bathes a mass of flowers,

And in his heavy hair where the dew falls,

Move their delicate, fearful and enticing fingers.

He listens to the singing of their apprehensive breath

Which smells of long rosy plant honey,

And which at times a hiss interrupts, saliva

Caught on the lip or desire for kisses.

He hears their black eyelashes beating

in the perfumed Silence;

and their gentle electric fingers

Make in his half-drunken indolence the death of the little lice

Crackle under their royal nails.

Then the wine of Sloth rises in him,

The sigh of an harmonica which could bring on delerium;

The child feels, according to the slowness of the caresses,

Surging in him and dying continuously a desire to cry.

 

A Season in Hell & Illuminations__Rimbaud Complete
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Tartufe’s Punishment

Raking, raking, his amorous thoughts

underneath his chaste robe of black,

happy, his hand gloved,

one day as he went along, fearsomely sweet,

yellow, dribbling piety from his toothless mouth,

One day as he went along,

‘Let us Pray’, – a Wicked One seized him

roughly by his saintly ear and

snapped frightful words at him,

tearing off the chaste robe of black

wrapped about his moist skin.

Punishment! – His clothes were unbuttoned;

and, the long chaplet of pardoned

sins being told in his heart,

St Tartufe was so pale!..

So he confessed and prayed, with a death rattle!

The man contented himself with carrying off

his clerical bands� – Faugh!

Tartufe was naked from his top to his toe!

Arthur Rimbaud: Le voleur de Feu__Je suis ici dans les Gallas
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Sensation


On the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths,

And walk over the short grass, as I am pricked by the wheat:

Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet.

I will let the wind bathe my bare head. I will not speak,

I will have no thoughts: But infinite love will mount in my soul;

And I will go far, far off, like a gypsy,

through the countryside – as happy as if I were a woman.

March
1870

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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Sentences
(Phrases)

When
the world is reduced to a single dark wood

for our four eyes’ astonishment,– a beach for two

faithful children,– a musical house

for one pure sympathy,– I shall find you.

Should there be here below

but a single old man, handsome

and calm in the midst

of incredible luxury, I shall be at your feet.

Should I have realized all your memories,–

should I be the one who can bind you

hand and foot,– I shall strangle you.

* When we are very strong,– who draws back?

very gay,– who cares for ridicule?

When we are very bad,– what would they do with us?

Deck yourself, dance, laugh.

I could never throw Love out of the window.

* My comrade, beggar girl, monster child!

O it’s all one to you these unhappy women,

these wiles and my discomfiture.

Bind yourself to us with your impossible voice, your voice!

sole soother of this vile despair.

* An overcast morning in July. A taste of ashes flies through the air;–

an odor of sweating wood on the hearth,–

dew-ret flowers– devastation along the promenades–

the mist of the canals over the fields– why not incense and toys already?

* I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple;

garlands from window to window;

golden chains from star to star, and I dance.

* The upland pond smokes continuously.

What witch will rise against the white west sky?

What violet frondescence fall?

* While public funds evaporate in feasts of fraternity,

a bell of rosy fire rings in the clouds.

* Reviving a pleasant taste of Indian ink,

a black powder rains on my vigil.

I lower the jets of the chandelier,

I throw myself on my bed,

and turning my face towards the darkness,

I see you, my daughters! my queens!

Arthur Rimbaud__Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Seascape
(Marine )

Chariots
of copper and of silver–

Prows of silver and steel–

Thresh upon the foam,–

Upheavals the stumps and brambles.

The currents of the heath,

And the enormous ruts of the ebb,

Flow circularly toward the east,

Toward the pillars of the forest,–

Toward the boles of the jetty,

Against whose edge whirlwinds of light collide.

Arthur Rimbaud: Le voleur de Feu__Poesies / Une Saison en Enfer
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Tear

Far
away from birds and herds and village girls,

I was drinking, kneeling down in some heather

Surrounded by soft hazel copses,

In an afternoon mist, warm and green.

What can I have been drinking in that young Oise,

Voiceless elms, flowerless turf, overcast sky.

What did I draw from the gourd of the wine ?

Some golden liquor, pale, which causes sweating.

Such as I was, I should have made a poor inn-sign.

Then the storm changed the sky, until the evening.

It was black countries, lakes, poles,

Colonnades under the blue night, railway stations.

The water from the woods trickled away into virgin sands,

The wind, from the sky, threw sheets of ice across the ponds …

But ! like a fisher for gold or shellfish,

To think that I did not bother to drink !

Arthur Rimbaud__Illuminaciones - A Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

The Rooks

Lord, when
the meadowland is cold,

and when in the downcast hamlets the long Angeluses are silent..

down on Nature barren of flowers let

them sweep from the wide skies, the dear delightful rooks.

Strange army with your stern cries,

the cold winds are assaulting your nests!

You – along yellowed rivers, over the roads with their old Calvarys,

over ditches, over holes – disperse! And rally!

In your thousands, over the fields of France

where the day before yesterday’s dead are sleeping,

wheel in the wintertime, won’t you,

so
that each traveler may remember!

Be, then, the one who calls men to duty,

O funeral black bird of ours!

But, ye saints of the sky,

at the oak tree top, the masthead lost in the enchanted twilight,

leave alone the warblers of May, for the sake of those whom,

in the depths of the wood,

in the undergrowth from which there is no escaping,

defeat without a future has enslaved.

 

Rimbaud__Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Royalty

On
a brilliant morning, in a city of lovely people,

A wonderful man and a wonderful woman

Were shouting out loud,

in the middle of town:

‘Oh, my friends… I wanted her to be queen!’

‘I want to be a queen!’

She kept on laughing and trembling,

While he talked to his friends

about
revelations,

And tribulations at an end.

They laughed and they leaned

close to one another. And, of course,

they were royal… All morning long,

when scarlet draperies hung upon all the houses,

And even in the afternoon,

When they appeared

at the edge of the gardens of palms.

Les Illuminations__Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Ruts

To
the right the summer dawn

wakes the leaves and the mists

and the noises in this corner of the park,

and the left-hand banks

hold in their violet shadows

the thousand swift ruts of the wet road.

Wonderland procession! Yes, truly: floats covered

with animals of gilded wood, poles and bright bunting,

to the furious gallop of twenty dappled circus horses,

and children and men on their most fantastic beasts;–

twenty rotund vehicles, decorated with flags

and flowers like the coaches of old or in fairy tales,

full of children all dressed up for a suburban pastoral.

Even coffins under their somber canopies

lifting aloft their jet-black plumes,

bowling along to the trot

of huge mares, blue and black.

Rimbaud le Fils__Rimbaud a Aden
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Scene Set to Music

Place de
la Gare, Charleville

On the square
which is chopped into mean little plots of grass,

the square where all is just so, both the trees and the flowers,

all the wheezy townsfolk whom the heat chokes bring,

each Thursday evening, their envious silliness.

The military band, in the middle of the gardens,

swing their shakos in the Waltz of the Fifes: round about,

near the front rows, the town dandy struts;

the notary hangs like a charm from his own watch chain.

Private incomes in pince-nez point out all the false notes:

great counting-house desks, bloated, drag their stout spouses –

close by whom, like bustling elephant keepers,

walk females whose flounces remind you of sales.

Rimbaud__Arthur Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

The Transfixed

Black in
the snow and fog,

at the great lighted airshaft, their bums rounded,

on their knees, five little ones – what anguish! –

watch the baker making the heavy white bread.

They see the strong white arm that shapes

the grey dough and sets it to bake in a bright hole.

They listen to the good bread cooking.

The Baker with his fat smile hums an old tune.

They are huddled together, not one of them moves,

in the waft of air from the red vent, warm as a breakfast.

And when, for some midnight breakfast,

plaited like a brioche, the bread is taken out;

When, under the smoky beams, the fragrant crusts hiss,

and the crickets sing; how this warm hole breathes life!

Their souls are so ravished under their rags,

They feel life so strong in them, poor frozen Jesuses,

that they all stay, sticking their little pink snouts

against the wire netting, grunting things through the holes,

quite stupid, saying their prayers, and bending down

towards those lights of opened heaven so hard,

they split their trousers, and their shirt tails flutter in the winter
wind.

20 September
70

Les Illuminations__Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY


Shame

So
long as the blade has not

Cut off that brain,

That white, green and fatty parcel,

Whose steam is never fresh,

Ah ! He, should cut off his

Nose, his lips, his ears,

His belly ! And abandon

But no, truly, I believe that so long as

The blade to his head,

And the stone to his side,

And the flame to his guts

Have not done execution, the tiresome

Child, the so stupid animal,

Must never for an instant cease

To cheat and betray

And like a Rocky Mountain cat ;

To make all places stink !

But still when he dies,

O my God !

May there rise up some prayer !

Total Eclipse__Arthur Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

The
Soul

Eternal
Undines, split the pure water.

Venus, sister of azure, stir up the clear wave.

Wandering Jews of Norway, tell me of snow;

old beloved exiles tell me of the sea.

Myself: No, no more of these pure drinks,

these water-flowers for glasses;

neither legends nor faces quench my thirst;

singer, your god-child is my thirst so mad,

a mouthless intimate hydra

which consumes and ravages.

A Season in Hell__Rimbaud by Wallace Folie
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Squattings

Very late,
when he feels his stomach churn,

Brother Milotus, one eye on the skylight whence the sun,

bright as a scoured stewpan, darts a megrim at him

and dizzies his sight, moves his priest’s belly under the sheets.

He struggles beneath the grey blanket and gets out,

his knees to his trebling belly, flustered like an old man

who has swallowed a pinch of snuff,

because he has to tuck up his nightshirt in armfuls

round his waist with one hand

grasping the handle of a white chamberpot!

Now he is squatting, chilly, his toes curled up,

his teeth chattering in the bright sunshine

which dubs the yellow of cake upon the paper panes;

and the old fellow’s nose, its crimson catching fire,

snuffles in the rays like a polypary of flesh.

The old fellow simmers at the fire, his arms twisted,

his blubber lips on his belly:

he feels his thighs slipping into the fire,

and his breeches scorching, and his pipe going out;

something resembling a bird stirs a little in his serene belly

which is like a mountain of tripe!

Round about him sleeps a jumble of stunned furniture

among tatters of filth, lying on soiled bellies;

stools cower like weird toads in dark corners:

cupboards have maws like choirmasters,

yawning with a sleepiness which is full of revolting appetites.

The sickening heat stuffs the narrow room;

the old fellow’s head is crammed with rags:

he listens to the hairs growing in his moist away,

shaking his rickety stool..

And in the evening, in rays of moonlight

which leaves dribbles of light

on the contours of his buttocks,

a shadow with details squats

against a background of snow-coloured pink like a hollyhock �

Fantastic, a nose follows Venus in the deep sky.

 

Rimbaud__Arthur Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY


Stages (Scenes)

Ancient
Comedy pursues its harmonies and divides its Idylls:

Raised platforms along the boulevards.

A long wooden pier the length of a rocky field in which

the barbarous crowd moves about under the denuded trees.

In corridors of black gauze, following the promenades

with their lanterns and their leaves.

Birds of the mysteries swoop down onto a masonry pontoon,

swayed by the sheltered archipelago of spectators’ boats.

Operatic scenes with accompaniment of flute and drum

look down from slanting recesses contrived below

the ceilings around modern club rooms and halls of ancient Orient.

The fairy spectacle maneuvers at the top of an amphitheater

crowned with thickets,– or moves and modulates for the Boeotians

in the shade of waving forest trees, on the edge of the cultivated fields.

The opera-comique is divided on a stage at the line of intersection

of ten partitions set up between the gallery and the footlights.

Arthur Rimbaud: Le voleur de Feu__Le vertige de Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Stolen Heart

My sad heart
slobbers at the poop

my heart covered with tobacco-spit

They spew streams of soup at it

My sad heart drools at the poop

Under the jeerings of the soldiers who break out laughing

my sad heart drools at the poop

my heart covered with tobacco-spit.

Ithypallic
and soldierish

Their jeerings have depraved it

In the rudder you see frescoes

Ithypallic and soldierish

O, abracadabratic waves

Take my heart, let it be washed!

Ithypallic and soldierish

their jeerings have depraved it.

When they have used up their quid

How will I act, O stolen heart?

There will be Bacchic hiccups

When they have used up their quid

I will have stomach retchings

If my heart is degraded;

When they have used up their quid

How will I act, O stolen heart?

 

Arthur Rimbaud: Le voleur de Feu__Rimbaud Complete
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

Tale

A
Prince was vexed at having devoted himself

only to the perfection of ordinary generosities.

He foresaw astonishing revolutions of love

and suspected his women of being able to do better

than their habitual acquiescence embellished by heaven and luxury.

He
wanted to see the truth, the hour of essential desire and gratification.

Whether this was an aberration of piety or not,

that is what he wanted. Enough worldly power, at least, he had.

All the women who had known him were assassinated;

what havoc in the garden of beauty! At the point of the sword they blessed
him.

He did not order new ones.– The women reappeared.

He killed all those who followed him, after the hunt or the libations.–

All followed him. He amused himself cutting the throats of rare animals.

He set palaces on fire. He would rush upon people and hack them to pieces.–

The throngs, the gilded roofs, the beautiful animals still remained.

Can one be in ecstasies over destruction and by cruelty rejuvenated!

The people did not complain. No one offered him the benefit of his views.

One evening he was proudly galloping.

A Genie appeared, of ineffable beauty, unwavorable even.

In his face and in his bearing shone the promise of a complex and multiple
love!

of an indescribable happiness, unendurable, even.

The Prince and the Genie annihilated each other probably in essential
health.

How could they have helped dying of it?

Together then they died.

But this Prince died in his palace at an ordinary age,

the Prince was the Genie, the Genie was the Prince.–

There is no sovereign music for our desire.

Rimbaud__Illuminaciones - A Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY

The Sly One

In the brown
dining-room,

which was perfumed

with the scent of polish and fruit,

I was shoveling up at my ease

a plateful of some Belgian dish

or other, and sprawling in my enormous chair.

While I ate, I listened, happy and silent, to the clock.

The kitchen door opened with a gust,

and the servant girl came in,

I don’t know what for,

neckerchief loose, hair dressed impishly.

And, passing her little finger tremblingly across her cheek,

a pink and white peach-bloom,

pouting with her childish mouth,

she tidied the plates standing close to me,

to make me feel comfortable; – and then, just like that,

– to get a kiss of course –

said very softly: ‘Feel, then, I’ got a cold in the cheek�’

Charleroi,
October 70

Poetics of Indeterminancy__Rimbaud in New York
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
 

ARTHUR
RIMBAUD POETRY


Side Show

Very
sturdy rogues.

Several have exploited your worlds.

With no needs, and in no hurry

to make use of their brilliant faculties

and their knowledge of your conveniences.

What ripe men! Eyes vacant like the summer night,

red and black, tricolored, steel studded with gold stars;

faces distorted, leaden, blanched, ablaze;

burlesque
hoarsenesses! The cruel strut of flashy finery!

Some are young,– how would they look on Cherubim?–

endowed with terrifying voices and some dangerous resources.

They are sent buggering in the town, tricked out with nauseating _luxury._

O the most violent Paradise of the furious grimace!

Not to be compared with your Fakirs and other theatrical buffooneries.

In improvised costumes like something out of a bad dream,

they enact heroic romances of brigands and of demigods,

more inspiriting than history or religions have ever been.

Chinese, Hottentots, gypsies, simpletons, hyenas, Molochs,

old dementias, sinister demons, they combine popular maternal

turns with bestial poses and caresses.

They would interpret new plays, “romantic” songs.

Master jugglers, they transform place and persons

and have recourse to magnetic comedy.

Eyes flame, blood sings, bones swell, tears and red trickles flow,

Their clowning or their terror lasts a minute or entire months.

I alone have the key to this savage side show.

I Promise to be Good__Rimbaud and Jim Morrison
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