Arthur Rimbaud

Arthur Rimbaud

1854-10-20 Charleville-Mézières, França
1891-11-10 Marselha, França
17598
1
2


Some Poems

The Orphans' New Year's Gift

The Orphans' New Year's Gift

The room is full of shadow; you can hear, indistinctly, the sad soft whispering of two
children.
Their foreheads lean forward, still heavy with dreams, beneath the long white
bed-curtain
which shudders and rises... Outside the birds crowd together, chilled;
their wings are benumbed under the grey tints of the skies; and the New Year,
with her train of mist, trailing the folds of her snowy garment,
smiles through her tears, and shivering, sings...
II
But the little children, beneath the swaying curtain, talk in low voices as one does on a
dark night.
Thoughtfully they listen as to a far-off murmur... They tremble often at the clear
golden voice of the
morning chime repeatedly striking its metallic refrain beneath its glass dome...
And then, the room is icy... you can see, strewn here and there on the floor round the
beds,
mourning clothes: the bitter blast of winter which moans at the threshold blows its
melancholy
breath into the house! You can feel, in all this, that there is something missing...
Is there then no mother for these little children? No mother full of fresh smiles and
looks of triumph?
Did she forget, last night, stooping down by herself, to kindle a flame saved from these
ashes,
and to heap up the blankets and eiderdown on them before leaving them,
calling out to them: forgive me! Did she not forsee the chill of the morning?
Did she forget to close the door against the blast of winter? A mother's dream is the
warm coverlet,
the downy nest, where children, huddled like pretty birds rocked by the branches,
sleep their sweet sleep full of white dreams. -- And here? -- it is like a nest without
feathers or warmth,
where the little ones are cold, do not sleep, are afraid; a nest that the bitter blast must
have frozen...
III
Your heart has understood: -- these children are motherless. No mother in the place
any more!...
and their father is far away!... -- An old servant woman, then, has taken them under
her care.
The little ones are alone in the icy house; four-year-old orphans, see how in their
thoughts,
little by little, a smiling memory awakes... It's like a rosary which you tell, praying: --
Ah, what a beautiful morning, that New Year's morning!
Everyone had dreamt of his dear ones that night,
in some strange dream where you could see toys, sweets covered with gold, sparkling
jewels,
all whirling an echoing dance, and then disappearing beneath the curtain, and then
reappearing!
You awoke in the morning and got up full of joy with your mouth watering, rubbing
your eyes...
You went with tangled hair and shining eyes, as on holiday mornings,
little bare feet brushing the floor, to tap softly on your parents' door... You went in!...
And then came the greetings... in your nightshirt, kisses upon kisses, and fun all
allowed!



IV
Ah how charming it was, those words so often spoken! -- But how the old home has
changed!
There used to be a big fire crackling bright in the grate, so that the old bedroom was
all lit up by it;
and the red reflection from the great hearth would play over the gleaming furniture...


There was no key in the cupboard!... the big brown cupboard with no key!...
You kept looking at the dark brown door... No key!... That was strange!...
you kept wondering about the mysteries sleeping within its wooden sides; and you
seemed to hear,
from the bottom of the huge keyhole, a far-off sound, an indistinct and joyful
murmur...
Their parents' bedroom is quite empty now: there is no red reflection shining under the
door;
there are no parents, no fire, no hidden keys; and so there are no kisses either,
or pleasant surprises! Oh how sad their New Year's Day will be! -- And sadly,
while a bitter tear falls silently from their big blue eyes,
they murmur: 'Oh when will our mother come back?'...
V
Now the little ones are dozing sadly: you would say, to see them,
that they are crying in their sleep, their eyes are so swollen, their breathing so painful!
Small children have such sensitive hearts! -- But the guardian angel of the cradle
comes and
wipes their eyes and puts a happy dream into their heavy slumber, such a joyous
dream that
their half-open lips seem, smiling, to murmur something. They are dreaming that,
leaning
on their small round arms, in the sweet gesture of awakening, they lift their heads and
gaze
mildly about them... They seem to have fallen asleep in some rose-coloured paradise...
The fire crackles merrily in the bright hearth... Through the window you can see a
lovely
blue sky over there; nature is awakening and becoming drunk again with sunlight...
the earth, half-bare, happy to be alive again, trembles with joy beneath the sun's
kisses.
In the old home all is warm and flushed: no longer are there mourning garments
strewn on the floor,
and the draught has at least ceased to moan under the door... You would say that a
fairy
had passed this way!... The children, full of happiness, give two cries...
Here, near their mother's bed in a beautiful rose-coloured ray of light,
here on the big carpet, something shines... It is two silvery plaques, black and white,
glittering with mother-of-pearl and jet; little black frames and wreaths of glass,
with three words engraved in gold: 'TO OUR MOTHER'...

To The Poet On The Subject Of Flowers

To The Poet On The Subject Of Flowers

Thus continually towards the dark azure,
Where the sea of topazes shimmers,
Will function in your evening
The Lilies, those pessaries of ectasy!


In our own age sago,
When Plants work for their living,
The Lily will dring blue loathings
From you religious Proses!


-Monsieur de Kerdrel's fleur-de-lys,
The Sonnet of eighteen-thirty,
The Lily they bestow on the Bard
Together with the pink and the amaranth!
Lilies! lilies! None to be seen!
Yet in your Verse, like the sleeves
Of the soft-footed Women of Sin,
Always these white flowers shiver!


Always, Dear Man, when you bathe,
Your shirt with yellow oxters
Swells in the morning breezes
Above the muddy forget-menots!


Love get through your customs
Only Lilacs, - o eye-wash!
And the Wild Violets,
Sugary spittle of the dark Nymphs!...


II


O Poets, if you had
Roses, blown Roses,
Red upon laurel stems,
And swollen with a thousand octaves!


If Banville would make them snow down,
Blood-tinged, whirling,
Blacking the wild eye of the stranger
With his ill-disposed interpretations!


In your forests and in your meadows,
O very peaceful photographers!
The Flora is more or less diverse
Like the stoppers on decanters!


Always those French vegetables,
Cross-gained, phthisical, absurd,
Navigated by the peaceful bellies
Of basset-hounds in twilight;



Always, after frightful drawings
Of blue Lotuses or Sunflowers,
Pink prints, holy pictures
For young girls making their communion!


The Asoka Ode agrees with the
Loretto window stanza form;
And heavy vivid butterflies
Are dunging on the Daisy.


Old greenery, and old galloons!
O vegetable fancy biscuits!
fancy-flowers of old Drawing-rooms!


-For cockchafers, not rattlesnakes,
The pulling vegetable baby dolls
Which Grandville would have put round the margins,
And which sucked in their colours
From ill-natured stars with eyeshades!


Yes, the drooling from your shepherd's pipes
Make some priceless glucoses!


-Pile of fried eggs in hold hats,
Lilies, Asokas, Lilacs and Roses!...
III


O white Hunter, running sockingless
Across the panic Pastures,
Can you not, ought you not
To know your botany a little?


I'm afraid you'd make succeed,
To russet Crickets, Cantharides,
And Rio golds to blues of Rhine, -
In short, to Norways, Floridas:


But, My dear Chap, Art does not consist now,


-it's the truth, - in allowing
To the astonishing Eucalyptus
boa-constrictors a hexameter long;
There now!... As if Mahogany
Served only, even in our Guianas,
As helter-skelters for monkeys,
Among the heavy vertigo of the lianas!


-In short, is a Flower, Rosemary
Or Lily, dead or alive, worth
The excrement of one sea-bird?
Is it worth a solitary candle-drip?

-And I mean what I say!
You, even sitting over there, in a
Bamboo hut, - with the shutters
Closed, and brown Persian rugs for hangings, -
You would scrawl blossoms
Worthy of extravagant Oise!...

-Poet ! these are reasonnings
No less absurd than arrogant!...
IV


Speak, not of pampas in the spring
Black with terrible revolts,
But of tobacco and cotton trees!
Speak of exotic harvests!


Say, white face which Phoebus has tanned,
How many dollars
Pedro Velasquez of Habana ;
Cover with excrement the sea of Sorrento


Where the Swans go in thousands;
Let your lines campaign
For the clearing of the mangrove swamps
Riddled with pools and water-snakes!


Your quatrain plunges into the bloody thickets
And come back to offer to Humanity
Various subjects: white sugar,
Bronchial lozenges, and rubbers!


Let us know though You wheter the yellownesses
Of snow Peaks, near the Tropics,
Are insects which lay many eggs
Or microscopic lichens!


Find, o Hunter, we desire it,
One or two scented madder plants
Which Nature in trousers
May cause to bloom! - fr our Armies!


Find, on the outskirts of the Sleeping Wood,
Flowers, whick look like snouts,
Out of which drip golden pomades
On to the dark hair of buffaloes!


Find, in wild meadows, where on the Blue Grass
Shivers the silver of downy gowths,
Calyxex full of fiery Eggs
Cooking among the essential oils!



Find downy Thistles
Whose wool ten asses with glaring eyes
Labour to spin!
Find Flowers which are chairs!


Yes, find in the heart of coal-black seams
Flowers that are almost stones, - marvellous ones! -
Which, close to their hard pale ovaries
Bear gemlike tonsils!


Srve us, o Stuffer, this you can do,
On a splendid vermilion plate
Stews of syrupy Lilies
To corrode our German-silver spoons!


V


Someone will speak about great Love,
The thief of black Indulgences:
But neither Renan, nor Murr the cat
Have seen the immense Blue Thyrsuses!


You, quicken in our sluggishness,
By means of scents, hysteria;
Exalt us towards purities
Whiter than the Marys...


tradesman! colonial! Medium!
Your Rhyme will well up, pink or white,
Like a blaze of sodium,
Like a bleeding rubber-tree!


But from your dark Poems, - Juggler!
dioptric white and green and red,
Let strange flowers burst out
And electric butterflies!


See! it's the Century of hell!
And the telegraph poles
Are going to adorn, - the iron-voiced lyre,
Your magnificent shoulder blades!


Above all, give us a rhymed account
Of the potato blight!


-And, in order to compose
Poems full of mystery
Intended to be read from Tréguier
To Paramaribo, go and buy
A few volumes by Monsieur Figuier,

-Illustrated! - at Hachette's !

Alcide Bava

Original French

Ce qu'on dit au Poète
à propos de fleurs.


I


Ainsi, toujours, vers l'azur noir
Où tremble la mer des topazes,
Fonctionneront dans ton soir
Les Lys, ces clystères d'extases !


À notre époque de sagous,
Quand les Plantes sont travailleuses,
Le Lys boira les bleus dégoûts
Dans tes Proses religieuses !


-Le lys de monsieur de Kerdrel,
Le Sonnet de mil huit cent trente,
Le Lys qu'on donne au Ménestrel
Avec l'oeillet et l'amarante !
Des lys ! Des lys ! On n'en voit pas !
Et dans ton Vers, tel que les manches
Des Pécheresses aux doux pas,
Toujours frissonnent ces fleurs blanches !


Toujours, Cher, quand tu prends un bain,
Ta chemise aux aisselles blondes
Se gonfle aux brises du matin
Sur les myosotis immondes !


L'amour ne passe à tes octrois
Que les Lilas, - ô balançoires !
Et les Violettes du Bois,
Crachats sucrés des Nymphes noires !...


II


O Poètes, quand vous auriez
Les Roses, les Roses soufflées,
Rouges sur tiges de lauriers,
Et de mille octaves enflées !


Quand Banville en ferait neiger,
Sanguinolentes, tournoyantes,
Pochant l'oeil fou de l'étranger



Aux lectures mal bienveillantes !


De vos forêts et de vos prés,
O très paisibles photographes !
La Flore est diverse à peu près
Comme des bouchons de carafes !


Toujours les végétaux Français,
Hargneux, phtisiques, ridicules,
Où le ventre des chiens bassets
Navigue en paix, aux crépuscules ;


Toujours, après d'affreux dessins
De Lotos bleus ou d'Hélianthes,
Estampes roses, sujets saints
Pour de jeunes communiantes !


L'Ode Açoka cadre avec la
Strophe en fenêtre de lorette ;
Et de lourds papillons d'éclat
Fientent sur la Pâquerette.


Vieilles verdures, vieux galons !
O croquignoles végétales !
Fleurs fantasques des vieux Salons !


-Aux hannetons, pas aux crotales,
Ces poupards végétaux en pleurs
Que Grandville eût mis aux lisières,
Et qu'allaitèrent de couleurs
De méchants astres à visières !


Oui, vos bavures de pipeaux
Font de précieuses glucoses !


-Tas d'oeufs frits dans de vieux chapeaux,
Lys, Açokas, Lilas et Roses !...
III


O blanc Chasseur, qui cours sans bas
À travers le Pâtis panique,
Ne peux-tu pas, ne dois-tu pas
Connaître un peu ta botanique ?


Tu ferais succéder, je crains,
Aux Grillons roux les Cantharides,
L'or des Rios au bleu des Rhins, -
Bref, aux Norwèges les Florides :


Mais, Cher, l'Art n'est plus, maintenant,


-C'est la vérité, - de permettreÀ l'Eucalyptus étonnant

Des constrictors d'un hexamètre ;


Là !... Comme si les Acajous
Ne servaient, même en nos Guyanes,
Qu'aux cascades des sapajous,
Au lourd délire des lianes !


-En somme, une Fleur, Romarin
Ou Lys, vive ou morte, vaut-elle
Un excrément d'oiseau marin ?
Vaut-elle un seul pleur de chandelle ?
-Et j'ai dit ce que je voulais !
Toi, même assis là-bas, dans une
Cabane de bambous, - volets
Clos, tentures de perse brune, -
Tu torcherais des floraisons
Dignes d'Oises extravagantes !...

-Poète ! ce sont des raisons
Non moins risibles qu'arrogantes !...
IV


Dis, non les pampas printaniers
Noirs d'épouvantables révoltes,
Mais les tabacs, les cotonniers !
Dis les exotiques récoltes !


Dis, front blanc que Phébus tanna,
De combien de dollars se rente
Pedro Velasquez, Habana ;
Incague la mer de Sorrente


Où vont les Cygnes par milliers ;
Que tes strophes soient des réclames
Pour l'abatis des mangliers
Fouillés des Hydres et des lames !


Ton quatrain plonge aux bois sanglants
Et revient proposer aux Hommes
Divers sujets de sucres blancs,
De pectoraires et de gommes !


Sachons par Toi si les blondeurs
Des Pics neigeux, vers les Tropiques,
Sont ou des insectes pondeurs
Ou des lichens microscopiques !


Trouve, ô Chasseur, nous le voulons,
Quelques garances parfumées
Que la Nature en pantalons



Fasse éclore ! - pour nos Armées !


Trouve, aux abords du Bois qui dort,
Les fleurs, pareilles à des mufles,
D'où bavent des pommades d'or
Sur les cheveux sombres des Buffles !


Trouve, aux prés fous, où sur le Bleu
Tremble l'argent des pubescences,
Des calices pleins d'Oeufs de feu
Qui cuisent parmi les essences !


Trouve des Chardons cotonneux
Dont dix ânes aux yeux de braises
Travaillent à filer les noeuds !
Trouve des Fleurs qui soient des chaises !


Oui, trouve au coeur des noirs filons
Des fleurs presque pierres, - fameuses ! -
Qui vers leurs durs ovaires blonds
Aient des amygdales gemmeuses !


Sers-nous, ô Farceur, tu le peux,
Sur un plat de vermeil splendide
Des ragoûts de Lys sirupeux
Mordant nos cuillers Alfénide !


V


Quelqu'un dira le grand Amour,
Voleur des sombres Indulgences :
Mais ni Renan, ni le chat Murr
N'ont vu les Bleus Thyrses immenses !


Toi, fais jouer dans nos torpeurs,
Par les parfums les hystéries ;
Exalte-nous vers les candeurs
Plus candides que les Maries...


Commerçant ! colon ! médium !
Ta Rime sourdra, rose ou blanche,
Comme un rayon de sodium,
Comme un caoutchouc qui s'épanche !


De tes noirs Poèmes, - Jongleur !
Blancs, verts, et rouges dioptriques,
Que s'évadent d'étranges fleurs
Et des papillons électriques !


Voilà ! c'est le Siècle d'enfer !
Et les poteaux télégraphiques
Vont orner, - lyre aux chants de fer,



Tes omoplates magnifiques !


Surtout, rime une version
Sur le mal des pommes de terre !


-Et, pour la composition
De poèmes pleins de mystère
Qu'on doive lire de TréguierÀ Paramaribo, rachète
Des Tomes de Monsieur Figuier,

-Illustrés ! - chez Monsieur Hachette !
Alcide Bava
Arthur Rimbaud (20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891) Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud was a French poet. Born in Charleville, Ardennes, he produced his best known works while still in his late teens—Victor Hugo described him at the time as "an infant Shakespeare"—and he gave up creative writing altogether before the age of 20. As part of the decadent movement, Rimbaud influenced modern literature, music and art. He was known to have been a libertine and a restless soul, travelling extensively on three continents before his death from cancer just after his 37th birthday. Family and childhood (1854–1861) Arthur Rimbaud was born into the provincial middle class of Charleville (now part of Charleville-Mézières) in the Ardennes département in northeastern France. He was the second child of a career soldier, Frédéric Rimbaud, and his wife Marie-Catherine-Vitalie Cuif. His father, a Burgundian of Provençal extraction, rose from a simple recruit to the rank of captain, and spent the greater part of his army years in foreign service. Captain Rimbaud fought in the conquest of Algeria and was awarded the Légion d'honneur. The Cuif family was a solidly established Ardennais family, but they were plagued by unstable and bohemian characters; two of Arthur Rimbaud's uncles from his mother's side were alcoholics. Captain Rimbaud and Vitalie married in February 1853; in the following November came the birth of their first child, Jean-Nicolas-Frederick. The next year, on 20 October 1854, Jean-Nicolas-Arthur was born. Three more children, Victorine-Pauline-Vitalie (who died a month after she was born), Jeanne-Rosalie-Vitalie and Frederique-Marie-Isabelle, followed. Arthur Rimbaud's infancy is said to have been prodigious; a common myth states that soon after his birth he had rolled onto the floor from a cushion where his nurse had put him only to begin crawling toward the door. In a more realistic retelling of his childhood, Mme Rimbaud recalled when after putting her second son in the care of a nurse in Gespunsart, supplying clean linen and a cradle for him, she returned to find the nurse's child sitting in the crib wearing the clothes meant for Arthur. Meanwhile, the dirty and naked child that was her own was happily playing in an old salt chest. Soon after the birth of Isabelle, when Arthur was six years old, Captain Rimbaud left to join his regiment in Cambrai and never returned. He had become irritated by domesticity and the presence of the children while Madame Rimbaud was determined to rear and educate her family by herself. The young Arthur Rimbaud was therefore under the complete governance of his mother, a strict Catholic, who raised him and his older brother and younger sisters in a stern and religious household. After her husband's departure, Mme Rimbaud became known as "Widow Rimbaud". Schooling and teen years (1862–1871) Fearing that her children were spending too much time with and being over-influenced by neighbouring children of the poor, Mme Rimbaud moved her family to the Cours d'Orléans in 1862. This was a better neighborhood, and whereas the boys were previously taught at home by their mother, they were then sent, at the ages of nine and eight, to the Pension Rossat. For the five years that they attended school, however, their formidable mother still imposed her will upon them, pushing for scholastic success. She would punish her sons by making them learn a hundred lines of Latin verse by heart and if they gave an inaccurate recitation, she would deprive them of meals. When Arthur was nine, he wrote a 700-word essay objecting to his having to learn Latin in school. Vigorously condemning a classical education as a mere gateway to a salaried position, Rimbaud wrote repeatedly, "I will be a rentier (one who lives off his assets)". He disliked schoolwork and his mother's continued control and constant supervision; the children were not allowed to leave their mother's sight, and, until the boys were sixteen and fifteen respectively, she would walk them home from the school grounds. As a boy, Arthur was small, brown-haired and pale with what a childhood friend called "eyes of pale blue irradiated with dark blue—the loveliest eyes I've seen". When he was eleven, Arthur had his First Communion; despite his intellectual and individualistic nature, he was an ardent Catholic like his mother. For this reason he was called "sale petit Cagot" ("snotty little prig") by his fellow schoolboys. He and his brother were sent to the Collège de Charleville for school that same year. Until this time, his reading was confined almost entirely to the Bible, but he also enjoyed fairy tales and stories of adventure such as the novels of James Fenimore Cooper and Gustave Aimard. He became a highly successful student and was head of his class in all subjects but sciences and mathematics. Many of his schoolmasters remarked upon the young student's ability to absorb great quantities of material. In 1869 he won eight first prizes in the school, including the prize for Religious Education, and in 1870 he won seven firsts. When he had reached the third class, Mme Rimbaud, hoping for a brilliant scholastic future for her second son, hired a tutor, Father Ariste L'héritier, for private lessons. Lhéritier succeeded in sparking the young scholar's love of Greek and Latin as well as French classical literature. He was also the first person to encourage the boy to write original verse in both French and LatinRimbaud's first poem to appear in print was "Les Étrennes des orphelins" ("The Orphans' New Year's Gift"), which was published in the 2 January 1870 issue of Revue pour tous. Two weeks after his poem was printed, a new teacher named Georges Izambard arrived at the Collège de Charleville. Izambard became Rimbaud's literary mentor and soon a close accord formed between professor and student and Rimbaud for a short time saw Izambard as a kind of older brother figure. At the age of fifteen, Rimbaud was showing maturity as a poet; the first poem he showed Izambard, "Ophélie", would later be included in anthologies as one of Rimbaud's three or four best poems. When the Franco-Prussian War broke out, Izambard left Charleville and Rimbaud became despondent. He ran away to Paris with no money for his ticket and was subsequently arrested and imprisoned for a week. After returning home, Rimbaud ran away to escape his mother's wrath. From late October 1870, Rimbaud's behaviour became outwardly provocative; he drank alcohol, spoke rudely, composed scatological poems, stole books from local shops, and abandoned his hitherto characteristically neat appearance by allowing his hair to grow long. At the same time he wrote to Izambard about his method for attaining poetical transcendence or visionary power through a "long, intimidating, immense and rational derangement of all the senses. The sufferings are enormous, but one must be strong, be born a poet, and I have recognized myself as a poet." It is rumoured that he briefly joined the Paris Commune of 1871, which he portrayed in his poem L'orgie parisienne (ou : Paris se repeuple), ("The Parisian Orgy" or "Paris Repopulates"). Another poem, Le coeur volé ("The Stolen Heart"), is often interpreted as a description of him being raped by drunken Communard soldiers, but this is unlikely since Rimbaud continued to support the Communards and wrote poems sympathetic to their aims. Life with Verlaine (1871–1875) Rimbaud was encouraged by friend and office employee Charles Auguste Bretagne to write to Paul Verlaine, an eminent Symbolist poet, after letters to other poets failed to garner replies. Taking his advice, Rimbaud sent Verlaine two letters containing several of his poems, including the hypnotic, gradually shocking "Le Dormeur du Val" (The Sleeper in the Valley), in which certain facets of Nature are depicted and called upon to comfort an apparently sleeping soldier. Verlaine, who was intrigued by Rimbaud, sent a reply that stated, "Come, dear great soul. We await you; we desire you," along with a one-way ticket to Paris. Rimbaud arrived in late September 1871 at Verlaine's invitation and resided briefly in Verlaine's home Verlaine, who was married to the seventeen-year-old and pregnant Mathilde Mauté, had recently left his job and taken up drinking. In later published recollections of his first sight of Rimbaud, Verlaine described him at the age of seventeen as having "the real head of a child, chubby and fresh, on a big, bony rather clumsy body of a still-growing adolescent, and whose voice, with a very strong Ardennes accent, that was almost a dialect, had highs and lows as if it were breaking." Rimbaud and Verlaine began a short and torrid affair. Whereas Verlaine had likely engaged in prior homosexual experiences, it remains uncertain whether the relationship with Verlaine was Rimbaud's first. During their time together they led a wild, vagabond-like life spiced by absinthe and hashish. They scandalized the Parisian literary coterie on account of the outrageous behaviour of Rimbaud, the archetypical enfant terrible, who throughout this period continued to write strikingly visionary verse. The stormy relationship between Rimbaud and Verlaine eventually brought them to London in September 1872, a period about which Rimbaud would later express regret. During this time, Verlaine abandoned his wife and infant son (both of whom he had abused in his alcoholic rages). Rimbaud and Verlaine lived in considerable poverty, in Bloomsbury and in Camden Town, scraping a living mostly from teaching, in addition to an allowance from Verlaine's mother. Rimbaud spent his days in the Reading Room of the British Museum where "heating, lighting, pens and ink were free." The relationship between the two poets grew increasingly bitter. By late June 1873, Verlaine grew frustrated with the relationship and returned to Paris, where he quickly began to mourn Rimbaud's absence. On 8 July, he telegraphed Rimbaud, instructing him to come to the Hotel Liège in Brussels; Rimbaud complied at once. The Brussels reunion went badly: they argued continuously and Verlaine took refuge in heavy drinking. On the morning of 10 July, Verlaine bought a revolver and ammunition. That afternoon, "in a drunken rage," Verlaine fired two shots at Rimbaud, one of them wounding the 18-year-old in the left wrist. Rimbaud dismissed the wound as superficial, and did not initially seek to file charges against Verlaine. But shortly after the shooting, Verlaine (and his mother) accompanied Rimbaud to a Brussels railway station, where Verlaine "behaved as if he were insane." His bizarre behavior induced Rimbaud to "fear that he might give himself over to new excesses," so he turned and ran away. In his words, "it was then I [Rimbaud] begged a police officer to arrest him [Verlaine]." Verlaine was arrested for attempted murder and subjected to a humiliating medico-legal examination. He was also interrogated with regard to both his intimate correspondence with Rimbaud and his wife's accusations about the nature of his relationship with Rimbaud. Rimbaud eventually withdrew the complaint, but the judge nonetheless sentenced Verlaine to two years in prison. Rimbaud returned home to Charleville and completed his prose work Une Saison en Enfer ("A Season in Hell")—still widely regarded as one of the pioneering examples of modern Symbolist writing—which made various allusions to his life with Verlaine, described as a drôle de ménage ("domestic farce") with his frère pitoyable ("pitiful brother") and vierge folle ("mad virgin") to whom he was l'époux infernal ("the infernal groom"). In 1874 he returned to London with the poet Germain Nouveau and put together his groundbreaking Illuminations. Travels (1875–1880) Rimbaud and Verlaine met for the last time in March 1875, in Stuttgart, Germany, after Verlaine's release from prison and his conversion to Catholicism. By then Rimbaud had given up writing and decided on a steady, working life; some speculate he was fed up with his former wild living, while others suggest he sought to become rich and independent to afford living one day as a carefree poet and man of letters. He continued to travel extensively in Europe, mostly on foot. In May 1876 he enlisted as a soldier in the Dutch Colonial Army to travel free of charge to Java in the Dutch East Indies (now Indonesia) where four months later he deserted and fled into the jungle, eventually returning incognito to France by ship. At the official residence of the mayor of Salatiga, a small city at the foot of a dormant volcano located 46 km south of Semarang, capital of Central Java Province, there is a marble plaque stating that Rimbaud was once settled at the city. As a deserter, Rimbaud would have faced a Dutch firing squad if caught. In December 1878, Rimbaud arrived in Larnaca, Cyprus, where he worked for a construction company as a foreman at a stone quarry. In May of the following year he had to leave Cyprus because of a fever, which on his return to France was diagnosed as typhoid. Abyssinia (1880–1891) In 1880 Rimbaud finally settled in Aden, Yemen as a main employee in the Bardey agency. In 1884 he left his job at Bardey's to become a merchant on his own account in Harar, Ethiopia, where his commercial dealings notably included coffee and weapons. In this period, he struck up a very close friendship with the Governor of Harar, Ras Makonnen, father of future Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie. Death (1891) In February 1891, Rimbaud developed what he initially thought was arthritis in his right knee. It failed to respond to treatment and became agonisingly painful, and by March the state of his health forced him to prepare to return to France for treatment. In Aden, Rimbaud consulted a British doctor who mistakenly diagnosed tubercular synovitis and recommended immediate amputation. Rimbaud delayed until 9 May to set his financial affairs in order before catching the boat back to France. On arrival, he was admitted to hospital—the Hôpital de la Conception, in Marseille—where his right leg was amputated on 27 May. The post-operative diagnosis was cancer. After a short stay at his family home in Charleville, he attempted to travel back to Africa, but on the way his health deteriorated and he was readmitted to the same hospital in Marseille where the amputation had been performed, and spent some time there in great pain, attended by his sister Isabelle. Rimbaud died in Marseille on 10 November 1891, at the age of 37, and was interred in Charleville. Poetry In May 1871, Rimbaud wrote two letters explaining his poetic philosophy. The first was written May 13 to Izambard, in which Rimbaud explained: I'm now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I'm working at turning myself into a seer. You won't understand any of this, and I'm almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It's really not my fault. Rimbaud said much the same in his second letter, commonly called the Lettre du voyant ("Letter of the Seer"). Written May 15—before his first trip to Paris—to his friend Paul Demeny, the letter expounded his revolutionary theories about poetry and life, while also denouncing most poets that preceded him. Wishing for new poetic forms and ideas, he wrote: I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet makes himself a seer by a long, prodigious, and rational disordering of all the senses. Every form of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he consumes all the poisons in him, and keeps only their quintessences. This is an unspeakable torture during which he needs all his faith and superhuman strength, and during which he becomes the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed – and the great learned one! – among men. – For he arrives at the unknown! Because he has cultivated his own soul – which was rich to begin with – more than any other man! He reaches the unknown; and even if, crazed, he ends up by losing the understanding of his visions, at least he has seen them! Let him die charging through those unutterable, unnameable things: other horrible workers will come; they will begin from the horizons where he has succumbed! Rimbaud expounded the same ideas in his poem, "Le bateau ivre" ("The Drunken Boat"). This hundred-line poem tells the tale of a boat that breaks free of human society when its handlers are killed by "Redskins" (Peaux-Rouges). At first thinking that it drifts where it pleases, it soon realizes that it is being guided by and to the "poem of the sea". It sees visions both magnificent ("the blue and yellow of singing phosphorescence", "l'éveil jaune et bleu des phosphores chanteurs",) and disgusting ("nets where a whole Leviathan was rotting" "nasses / Où pourrit dans les joncs tout un Léviathan). It ends floating and washed clean, wishing only to sink and become one with the sea. Archibald MacLeish has commented on this poem: "Anyone who doubts that poetry can say what prose cannot has only to read the so-called Lettres du Voyant and 'Bateau Ivre' together. What is pretentious and adolescent in the Lettres is true in the poem—unanswerably true." Rimbaud's poetry influenced the Symbolists, Dadaists and Surrealists, and later writers adopted not only some of his themes, but also his inventive use of form and language. French poet Paul Valery stated that "all known literature is written in the language of common sense—except Rimbaud's." Cultural legacy Rimbaud's poetry, as well as his life, made an indelible impression on 20th century writers, musicians and artists. Pablo Picasso, Dylan Thomas, Allen Ginsberg, Vladimir Nabokov, Bob Dylan, Patti Smith, Giannina Braschi, Léo Ferré, Henry Miller, Van Morrison and Jim Morrison have been influenced by his poetry and life. The 1995 biographical film Total Eclipse depicts Leonardo DiCaprio as Rimbaud and David Thewlis as Paul Verlaine. Works: Le Soleil Était Encore Chaud (1866) Poésies (c. 1869–1873) Le bateau ivre (1871) Proses Évangeliques (1872) Une Saison en Enfer (1873) Illuminations (1874) Lettres (1870–1891)
wer54w66sf32re2
Arthur Rimbaud documentary
Arthur Rimbaud - Wandering Soul, Prodigal Son
La véritable histoire de la descente aux enfers d’Arthur Rimbaud racontée par Stéphane Bern
Arthur Rimbaud - Grand Ecrivain (1854-1891)
QUIZ - La vie de fou zinzin d’Arthur Rimbaud
L'HORRIBLE & SUBLIME DESTIN D'ARTHUR RIMBAUD
Arthur Rimbaud: Life of Vice | Tooky History
Literatura Fundamental 24 - Arthur Rimbaud - Maurício Salles Vasconcelos
A Season In Hell - Arthur Rimbaud BOOK REVIEW/THOUGHTS
Biographie d'Arthur Rimbaud
La minute de poésie : Le dormeur du val [Arthur Rimbaud]
Henri Guillemin : Arthur Rimbaud, Voyant ou Voyou ? - (Intégral)
Verlaine et Rimbaud : deux poètes inspirés par la passion - #CulturePrime
leonardo dicaprio as arthur rimbaud | total eclipse | scene pack
Arthur Rimbaud Against The Butchering of French Poetry
Rimbaud A Season In Hell
No Direction Home - On the trail of Rimbaud, the man who inspired Bob Dylan
Au cœur de l'histoire: La vie d'Arthur Rimbaud (Franck Ferrand)
Rimbaud : 4mn pour le découvrir !
Le vi0l d’Arthur Rimbaud
Arthur Rimbaud - A Uma Razão
The Drunken Boat by Arthur Rimbaud, read by Ben Kelly
L'HISTOIRE INCROYABLE D'ARTHUR RIMBAUD
Arthur Rimbaud VF
Dazai and Chuuya vs Arthur Rimbaud || Bungou Stray Dogs || EngSub
Roberto Vecchioni - Arthur Rimbaud (Live@RSI 1984)
Arthur Rimbaud Documentary
- arthur rimbaud: o visionário da modernidade
Arthur Rimbaud
TU VIENS AVEC TA COPINE VERLAINE À COLMAR ? (Résumé : Arthur Rimbaud, Œuvres complètes) | LhdH #18
[Leonardo DiCaprio]Rimbaud || Mad Hatter→All the best people are CRAZY
Cahiers de Douai, Rimbaud : Analyse des thèmes et du parcours pour le bac français
Arthur Rimbaud - African legacy - testament Africain - film documentary movie documentaire
Rimbaud (Arthur) : MA BOHÈME - Je m'en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ;
VOCÊ CONHECE O POEMA O BARCO BÊBADO DE ARTHUR RIMBAUD?
Arthur Rimbaud-Total Eclipse
Arthur RIMBAUD – L'exil éthiopien d'Abdallah Rimbaud (Arte TV, 2017)
Arthur Rimbaud - A Season in Hell (Complete Reading)
Paul Verlaine after the death of Arthur Rimbaud
Anthony Burgess on Rimbaud
[RARE] Arthur RIMBAUD – Le voleur de feu (DOCUMENTAIRE, 1977)
Arthur Rimbaud - Poèmes Choisis
Arthur Rimbaud, el alma inquieta de un joven poeta francés.
Arthur Rimbaud
Arthur Rimbaud - Um tempo no inferno & Iluminações
How to Pronounce Arthur Rimbaud? (CORRECTLY) French Author Pronunciation
Arthur Rimbaud
Poeta Arthur Rimbaud - Eduardo Bueno
Poésie🍃Le dormeur du val d'Arthur Rimbaud🍃
Arthur Rimbaud - Alba

See also

Who likes

Followers