Arthur Rimbaud

Arthur Rimbaud

1854-10-20 Charleville-Mézières, França
1891-11-10 Marselha, França
12674
1
2


Some Poems

Nina's Reply (Les Reparties De Nina)

Nina's Reply (Les Reparties De Nina)

HE - Your breast on my breast,
Eh ? We could go,
With our nostrils full of air,
Into the cool light


Of the blue good morning that bathes you
In the wine of daylight ?…
When the whole shivering wood bleeds,
Dumb with love


From every branch green drops,
Pale buds,
You can feel in things unclosing
The quivering flesh :


You would bury in the lucerne
Your white gown,
Changing to rose-colour in the fresh air the blue tint which encircles
Your great black eyes,


In love with the country,
Scattering everywhere,
Like champagne bubbles,
Your crazy laughter :


breast,
Mingling our voices,
Slowly we'd reach the stream,
Then the great woods !…


Then, like a little ghost,
Your heart fainting,
You'd tell me to carry you,
Your eyes half closed…


I'd carry your quivering body
Along the path :
The bird would sping out his andante :
Hard by the hazeltree…


I'd speak into your mouth ;
And go on, pressing
Your body like a little girl's I was putting to bed,
Drunk with the blood


That runs blue under your white skin
With its tints of rose :
And speaking to you in that frank tongue…
There !… - that you understand…


Our great woods would smell of sap,
And the sunlight



Would dust with fine gold their great
Green and bronze dream.


……………………………………………


In the evening ?… We'd take the white road
Which meanders,
Like a grazing herd,
All over the place


Oh the pleasant orchards with blue grass,
And twisted apple trees !
How you can smell a whole league
Off their strong perfume !


We'd get back to the village
When the sky was half dark ;
And there'd be a smell of milking
In the evening air ;


It would smell of the cowshed, full
Of warm manure,
Filled with the slow rythm of breathing,
And with great backs


Gleaming under some light or other ;
And, right down at the far end,
There'd be a cow dunging proudly
At every step…


-Grandmother's spectacles
And her long nose
Deep in her missal ; the jug of beer
Circled with pewter
Foaming among the big-bowled pipes
Gallantly smoking :
And the frightfull blubber lips
Which, still puffing,


Snatch ham from forks :
So much, and more :
The fire lighting up the bunks
And the cupboards.


The shining fat buttocks
Of the fat baby
On his hands and knees, who nuzzles into the cups,
His white snout


Tickled by a gently
Growling muzzle,



That licks all over the round face
Of the little darling…


Black and haughty on her chair's edge,
A terrifying profile,
And old woman in front of the embers,
Spinning


What sights we shall see, dearest,
In those hovels,
When the bright fire lights up
The grey window panes !…


-And then, small and nestling
Inside the cool
Dark lilacs : the hidden window
Smiling in there…
You'll come, you will come, I love you so !
It will be lovely.
You will come, won't you ? and even…


ELLE : - And what about my office ?


Original French


Les reparties de Nina


LUI - Ta poitrine sur ma poitrine,
Hein ? nous irions,
Ayant de l'air plein la narine,
Aux frais rayons


Du bon matin bleu, qui vous baigne
Du vin de jour ?...
Quand tout le bois frissonnant saigne
Muet d'amour


De chaque branche, gouttes vertes,
Des bourgeons clairs,
On sent dans les choses ouvertes
Frémir des chairs :


Tu plongerais dans la luzerne
Ton blanc peignoir,
Rosant à l'air ce bleu qui cerne
Ton grand oeil noir,


Amoureuse de la campagne,
Semant partout,



Comme une mousse de champagne,
Ton rire fou :


Riant à moi, brutal d'ivresse,
Qui te prendrais
Comme cela, - la belle tresse,
Oh ! - qui boirais


Ton goût de framboise et de fraise,
O chair de fleur !
Riant au vent vif qui te baise
Comme un voleur,


Au rose, églantier qui t'embête
Aimablement :
Riant surtout, ô folle tête,
À ton amant !....


........................................................


-Ta poitrine sur ma poitrine,
Mêlant nos voix,
Lents, nous gagnerions la ravine,
Puis les grands bois !...
Puis, comme une petite morte,
Le coeur pâmé,
Tu me dirais que je te porte,
L'oeil mi-fermé...


Je te porterais, palpitante,
Dans le sentier :
L'oiseau filerait son andante
Au Noisetier...


Je te parlerais dans ta bouche..
J'irais, pressant
Ton corps, comme une enfant qu'on couche,
Ivre du sang


Qui coule, bleu, sous ta peau blanche
Aux tons rosés.
Et te parlant la langue franche - .....
Tiens !... - que tu sais...


Nos grands bois sentiraient la sève,
Et le soleil
Sablerait d'or fin leur grand rêve
Vert et vermeil


........................................................



Le soir ?... Nous reprendrons la route
Blanche qui court
Flânant, comme un troupeau qui broute,
Tout à l'entour


Les bons vergers à l'herbe bleue,
Aux pommiers tors !
Comme on les sent toute une lieue
Leurs parfums forts !


Nous regagnerons le village
Au ciel mi-noir ;
Et ça sentira le laitage
Dans l'air du soir ;


Ca sentira l'étable, pleine
De fumiers chauds,
Pleine d'un lent rythme d'haleine,
Et de grands dos


Blanchissant sous quelque lumière ;
Et, tout là-bas,
Une vache fientera, fière,
À chaque pas...


-Les lunettes de la grand-mère
Et son nez long
Dans son missel ; le pot de bière
Cerclé de plomb,
Moussant entre les larges pipes
Qui, crânement,
Fument : les effroyables lippes
Qui, tout fumant,


Happent le jambon aux fourchettes
Tant, tant et plus :
Le feu qui claire les couchettes
Et les bahuts.


Les fesses luisantes et grasses
D'un gros enfant
Qui fourre, à genoux, dans les tasses,
Son museau blanc


Frôlé par un mufle qui gronde
D'un ton gentil,
Et pourlèche la face ronde
Du cher petit.....


Que de choses verrons-nous, chère,
Dans ces taudis,



Quand la flamme illumine, claire,
Les carreaux gris !...

-Puis, petite et toute nichée,
Dans les lilas
Noirs et frais : la vitre cachée,
Qui rit là-bas....
Tu viendras, tu viendras, je t'aime !
Ce sera beau.
Tu viendras, n'est-ce pas, et même...


Elle - Et mon bureau ?

Romance

Romance


When you are seventeen you aren't really serious.

-One fine evening, you've had enough of beer and lemonade,
And the rowdy cafes with their dazzling lights!
-You go walking beneath the green lime trees of the promenade.
The lime trees smell good on fine evenings in June!
The air is so soft sometimes, you close your eyelids;
The wind, full of sounds, - the town's not far away -
Carries odours of vines, and odours of beer...

II

-Then you see a very tiny rag
Of dark blue, framed by a small branch,
Pierced by an unlucky star which is melting away
With soft little shivers, small, perfectly white...
June night! Seventeen! - You let yourself get drunk.
The sap is champagne and goes straight to your head...
You are wandering; you feel a kiss on your lips
Which quivers there like something small and alive...


III


Your mad heart goes Crusoeing through all the romances,


-When, under the light of a pale street lamp,
Passes a young girl with charming little airs,
In the shadow of her father's terrifying stiff collar...
And because you strike her as absurdly naif,
As she trots along in her little ankle boots,
She turns, wide awake, with a brisk movement...
And then cavatinas die on your lips...
IV


You're in love. Taken until the month of August.
You're in love - Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends disappear, you are not quite the thing.


-Then your adored one, one evening, condescends to write to you...!
That evening,... - you go back again to the dazzling cafes,
You ask for beer or for lemonade...

-You are not really serious when you are seventeen
And there are green lime trees on the promenade...
Original French

Roman

I


On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans.

-Un beau soir, foin des bocks et de la limonade,
Des cafés tapageurs aux lustres éclatants !
-On va sous les tilleuls verts de la promenade.
Les tilleuls sentent bon dans les bons soirs de juin !
L'air est parfois si doux, qu'on ferme la paupière ;
Le vent chargé de bruits - la ville n'est pas loin -
A des parfums de vigne et des parfums de bière....


II


-Voilà qu'on aperçoit un tout petit chiffon
D'azur sombre, encadré d'une petite branche,
Piqué d'une mauvaise étoile, qui se fond
Avec de doux frissons, petite et toute blanche...


Nuit de juin ! Dix-sept ans ! - On se laisse griser.
La sève est du champagne et vous monte à la tête...
On divague ; on se sent aux lèvres un baiser
Qui palpite là, comme une petite bête....


III


Le coeur fou Robinsonne à travers les romans,
Lorsque, dans la clarté d'un pâle réverbère,
Passe une demoiselle aux petits airs charmants,
Sous l'ombre du faux col effrayant de son père...


Et, comme elle vous trouve immensément naïf,
Tout en faisant trotter ses petites bottines,
Elle se tourne, alerte et d'un mouvement vif....


-Sur vos lèvres alors meurent les cavatines...
IV

Vous êtes amoureux. Loué jusqu'au mois d'août.
Vous êtes amoureux. - Vos sonnets La font rire.
Tous vos amis s'en vont, vous êtes mauvais goût.

-Puis l'adorée, un soir, a daigné vous écrire...!
-Ce soir-là,... - vous rentrez aux cafés éclatants,
Vous demandez des bocks ou de la limonade..
-On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans
Et qu'on a des tilleuls verts sur la promenade.

Le Forgeron (The Blacksmith)

Le Forgeron (The Blacksmith)

Le bras sur un marteau gigantesque, effrayant
D'ivresse et de grandeur, le front large, riant
Comme un clairon d'airain, avec toute sa bouche,
Et prenant ce gros-là dans son regard farouche,
Le Forgeron parlait à Louis Seize, un jour
Que le Peuple était là, se tordant tout autour,
Et sur les lambris d'or traînait sa veste sale.
Or le bon roi, debout sur son ventre, était pâle
Pâle comme un vaincu qu'on prend pour le gibet,
Et, soumis comme un chien, jamais ne regimbait,
Car ce maraud de forge aux énormes épaules
Lui disait de vieux mots et des choses si drôles,
Que cela l'empoignait au front, comme cela !


'Donc, Sire, tu sais bien, nous chantions tra la la
Et nous piquions les boeufs vers les sillons des autres :
Le Chanoine au soleil disait ses patenôtres
Sur des chapelets clairs grenés de pièces d'or.
Le Seigneur, à cheval, passait, sonnant du cor,
Et l'un avec la hart, l'autre avec la cravache,
Nous fouaillaient ; Hébétés comme des yeux de vache,
Nos yeux ne pleuraient pas : nous allions ! nous allions !
Et quand nous avions mis le pays en sillons,
Quand nous avions laissé dans cette terre noire
Un peu de notre chair... nous avions un pourboire :


-Nous venions voir flamber nos taudis dans la nuit ;
Nos enfants y faisaient un gâteau fort bien cuit !...
'Oh ! je ne me plains pas. Je te dis mes bêtises :

-C'est entre nous. J'admets que tu me contredises...
Or, n'est-ce pas joyeux de voir, au mois de juin
Dans les granges entrer des voitures de foin
Enormes ? De sentir l'odeur de ce qui pousse,
Des vergers quand il pleut un peu, de l'herbe rousse ?
De voir les champs de blé, les épis pleins de grain,
De penser que cela prépare bien du pain ?...
-Oui, l'on pourrait, plus fort, au fourneau qui s'allume,
Chanter joyeusement en martelant l'enclume,
Si l'on était certain qu'on pourrait prendre un peu,
Étant homme, à la fin !, de ce que donne Dieu !...
-Mais voilà, c'est toujours la même vieille histoire !
'... Oh ! je sais, maintenant ! Moi, je ne peux plus croire,
Quand j'ai deux bonnes mains, mon front et mon marteau,
Qu'un homme vienne là, dague sous le manteau
Et me dise : Maraud, ensemence ma terre ;
Que l'on arrive encor, quand ce serait la guerre,
Me prendre mon garçon comme cela, chez moi !...


-Moi, je serais un homme, et toi tu serais roi,
Tu me dirais : Je veux ! - Tu vois bien, c'est stupide !...
Tu crois que j'aime à voir ta baraque splendide,
Tes officiers dorés, tes mille chenapans,

Tes palsembleu bâtards tournant comme des paons ?
Ils ont rempli ton nid de l'odeur de nos filles,
Et de petits billets pour nous mettre aux Bastilles,
Et nous dirions : C'est bien : les pauvres à genoux !...
Nous dorerions ton Louvre en donnant nos gros sous,
Et tu te soûlerais, tu ferais belle fête,
Et tes Messieurs riraient, les reins sur notre tête !...


'Non ! Ces saletés-là datent de nos papas !
Oh ! Le Peuple n'est plus une putain ! Trois pas,
Et, tous, nous avons mis ta Bastille en poussière !
Cette bête suait du sang à chaque pierre...
Et c'était dégoûtant, la Bastille debout
Avec ses murs lépreux qui nous rappelaient tout
Et, toujours, nous tenaient enfermés dans leur ombre !


-Citoyen ! citoyen ! c'était le passé sombre
Qui croulait, qui râlait, quand nous prîmes la tour !
Nous avions quelque chose au coeur comme l'amour :
Nous avions embrassé nos fils sur nos poitrines,
Et, comme des chevaux, en soufflant des narines,
Nous marchions, nous chantions, et ça nous battait là,
Nous allions au soleil, front haut, comme cela,
Dans Paris accourant devant nos vestes sales !...
Enfin ! Nous nous sentions hommes ! Nous étions pâles,
Sire ; nous étions soûls de terribles espoirs,
Et quand nous fûmes là, devant les donjons noirs,
Agitant nos clairons et nos feuilles de chêne,
Les piques à la main ; nous n'eûmes pas de haine :
-Nous nous sentions si forts ! nous voulions être doux !
'Et depuis ce jour-là, nous sommes comme fous...
Le flot des ouvriers a monté dans la rue
Et ces maudits s'en vont, foule toujours accrue,
Comme des revenants, aux portes des richards !...
Moi, je cours avec eux assommer les mouchards,
Et je vais dans Paris le marteau sur l'épaule,
Farouche, à chaque coin balayant quelque drôle,
Et, si tu me riais au nez, je te tuerais !...


-Puis, tu dois y compter, tu te feras des frais
Avec tes avocats, qui prennent nos requêtes
Pour se les renvoyer comme sur des raquettes,
Et, tout bas, les malins ! Nous traitant de gros sots !
Pour mitonner des lois, ranger des de petits pots
Pleins de menus décrets, de méchantes droguailles,
S'amuser à couper proprement quelques tailles,
Puis se boucher le nez quand nous passons près d'eux,
- Ces chers avocassiers qui nous trouvent crasseux ! -
Pour débiter là-bas des milliers de sornettes
Et ne rien redouter sinon les baïonnettes,
Nous en avons assez, de tous ces cerveaux plats !
Ils embêtent le peuple !... Ah ! ce sont là les plats
Que tu nous sers, bourgeois, quand nous sommes féroces,

Quand nous cassons déjà les sceptres et les crosses !...'


Puis il le prend au bras, arrache le velours
Des rideaux, et lui montre, en bas, les larges cours
Où fourmille, où fourmille, où se lève la foule,
La foule épouvantable avec des bruits de houle,
Hurlant comme une chienne, hurlant comme une mer,
Avec ses bâtons forts et ses piques de fer,
Ses clameurs, ses grands cris de halles et de bouges,
Tas sombre de haillons taché de bonnets rouges !
L'Homme, par la fenêtre ouverte, montre tout
Au Roi pâle, suant qui chancelle debout,
Malade à regarder cela !...
spacespacespacespacespacespacespacespace'C'est la Crapule,
Sire ! ça bave aux murs, ça roule, ça pullule...


-Puisqu'ils ne mangent pas, Sire, ce sont les gueux !
-Je suis un forgeron : ma femme est avec eux :
Folle ! Elle vient chercher du pain aux Tuileries :
-On ne veut pas de nous dans les boulangeries !...
J'ai trois petits ; -Je suis crapule ! - Je connais
Des vieilles qui s'en vont pleurant sous leurs bonnets,
Parce qu'on leur a pris leur garçon ou leur fille :
-C'est la crapule. - Un homme était à la bastille,
D'autres étaient forçats ; c'étaient des citoyens
Honnêtes ; Libérés, ils sont comme des chiens ;
On les insulte ! Alors, ils ont là quelque chose
Qui leur fait mal, allez ! C'est terrible, et c'est cause
Que, se sentant brisés, que, se sentant damnés,
Ils viennent maintenant hurler sous votre nez !...
-Crapules : - Là-dedans sont des filles, infâmes
Parce que -, sachant bien que c'est faible, les femmes,
Messeigneurs de la cour, que ça veut toujours bien, -
Vous leur avez sali leur âme, comme rien !
Vos belles, aujourd'hui, sont là : - C'est la Crapule...
'Oh ! tous les Malheureux, tout ceux dont le dos brûle
Sous le soleil féroce, et qui vont, et qui vont,
Et dans ce travail-là sentent crever leur front,
Chapeau bas, mes bourgeois ! Oh ! ceux-là sont les hommes !


-Nous sommes Ouvriers ! Sire, Ouvriers ! - nous sommes
Pour les grands temps nouveaux où l'on voudra savoir,
Où l'homme forgera du matin jusqu'au soir,
Où, lentement vainqueur, il chassera les choses
Poursuivant les grands buts, cherchant les grandes causes,
Et montera sur Tout comme sur un cheval !
Oh ! nous sommes contents, nous aurons bien du mal !
-Tout ce qu'on ne sait pas, c'est peut-être terrible.
Nous pendrons nos marteaux, nous passerons au crible
Tout ce que nous savons, puis, Frères, en avant !...
-Nous faisons quelquefois ce grand rêve émouvant
De vivre simplement, ardemment, sans rien dire
De mauvais, travaillant sous l'auguste sourire

D'une femme qu'on aime avec un noble amour !
Et l'on travaillerait fièrement tout le jour,
Ecoutant le devoir comme un clairon qui sonne :
Et l'on se trouverait fort heureux, et personne,
Oh ! personne ! surtout, ne vous ferait plier !...
On aurait un fusil au-dessus du foyer....

'Oh ! mais ! l'air est tout plein d'une odeur de bataille !
Que te disais-je donc ? Je suis de la canaille !'

Translation by A. S. Kline


His hand on a gigantic hammer, terrifying
In size and drunkenness, vast-browed, laughing
Like a bronze trumpet, his whole mouth displayed,
Devouring the fat man, now, with his wild gaze,
The Blacksmith spoke with Louis, with the king,
The People there, all around him, cavorting,
Trailing their dirty coats down gilded panels.
But the dear king, belly upright, was pallid,
Pale as the victim led to the guillotine,
Submissive like a dog, cowed by the scene,
Since that wide-shouldered forge-black soul
Spoke of things past and other things so droll,
He had him by the short hairs, just like that!


‘Now, Sir, you know how we’d sing tra-la-la,
And drive the ox down other people’s furrows:
The Canon spun paternosters in the shadows
On rosaries bright with golden coins adorned,
Some Lord, astride, passed blowing on his horn,
One with the noose, another with whip-blows
Lashed us on. – Dazed like the eyes of cows,
Our eyes no longer wept; on and on we went,
And when we’d ploughed a whole continent,
When we had left behind in that black soil
A little of our own flesh…to reward our toil:
They’d set alight our hovels in the night;
Our little ones made burnt cakes alright.


…Oh, I’m not complaining! All my follies,
They’re between us. I’ll let you contradict.
But, isn’t it fine to see, in the month of June,
The enormous hay-wains entering the barns?
To smell the odour of burgeoning things,
The orchards in fine rain, the oats reddening?
To see wheat, wheat, ears filled with grain,
To think it promises us good bread again?...
Oh! You’d go to the forge, be more cheerful,
Sing and hammer joyfully at the anvil,
If you were sure to gain a little in the end –



Being, in fact, a man – of what God intends!

– But there it is, always the same old story!...
But now I know! I don’t credit it any more,
Owning two strong hands, a head, a hammer,
That a man in a cloak, wearing a dagger
Can say: go and sow my land, there, fellow;
Or that another, if maybe war should follow,
Can take my son like that, from where I’m living!


– Suppose I were a man, and you a king,
You’d say: I will it!... – What stupidity.
You think your splendid barn pleases me,
Your gilded servants, your thousand rogues,
Your fancy bastards, peacocks in a row:
Filling your nest with our daughters’ odour,
Warrants to the Bastille for us, moreover
That we should say: fine: make the poor poorer!
We’ll give you our last sous to gild the Louvre!
While you get drunk and enjoy the feast,
– And they all laugh, riding our backs beneath!
No. Those puerilities were our fathers!
The People is no one’s whore now, three steps further
And then, we razed your Bastille to the ground.
That monster sweated blood from every mound,
Was an abomination, that Bastille standing,
With leprous walls its every story yielding,
And, we forever held fast in its shadow!


– Citizen! That was the past, its sorrow,
That broke, and died, when we stormed the tower!
We had something in our hearts like true ardour.
We had clutched our children to our breast.
And like chargers, snorting at the contest,
We went, proud and strong, beating here inside…
We marched in the sun – like this – heads high
Into Paris! They greeted us in our ragged clothes.
At last! We felt ourselves Men! We were sallow,
Sire, drunk, and pallid with terrifying hopes:
And there, in front of those black prison slopes,
Waving our bugles and our sprigs of oak,
Pikes in our fists; did we feel hatred, no!
– We felt such strength we wanted to be gentle! ...
And since that day, we have proved elementals!
A mass of workers sprang up in the street,
And, cursed, are gone, a swelling crowd replete
With ghostly shades, to haunt the rich man’s gate.
I, I run with them, and set informers straight:
I scour Paris, dark-faced, wild, hammer on shoulder,
Sweeping something droll out of every corner,
And, if you smile at me, then I’ll do for you!


– Well, count on it: all this is going to cost you

And your men in black, culling our requests
To bat them about on their racquets all in jest,
And whisper, the rascals, softly: “Oh, what sots!”
To cook up laws, and stick up little pots,
Filled with cute pink decrees, and sugar pills,
Cutting us down to size, to amuse themselves,
Then they hold their noses when we pass by,
– Our kind representatives who hate the sty! –
Fearful of nothing, nothing, but bayonets….
That’s fine. Enough of snuff and lorgnettes!
We’ve had our fill, here, of those dull heads
And bellies of gods. Ah! That’s the bread
You serve us, bourgeoisie, while we rage here,
While we shatter the sceptre and the crozier!...’


He takes his arm, tears back the velvet curtain
And shows the vast courtyards beneath them,
Where the mob swarms, and seethes, where rise,
Out of the frightful mob those storm-filled cries,
Howling as bitches howl, or like the sea,
With their knotted stakes, their pikes of steel,
With the clamour of their market-halls and slums,
A ragged mass of blood-stained caps, and drums:
The Man, through the open window, shows all
To the pale sweating king, reeling, about to fall,
Sick at the sight of it!
‘Those are the Scum, Sire.
Licking the walls, seething, rising higher:


– But then they’ve not eaten, Sire, these beggars!
I’m a blacksmith: my wife, madwoman, is there!
She thinks she’ll get bread at the Tuileries!
– They’ll have none of us in the bakeries.
I’ve three youngsters. I’m scum, too – I know
Old women weeping under their bonnets so
Because they’ve taken a daughter or a son:
One man was in the Bastille – oh, they’re scum –
Another the galleys: both honest citizens.
Freed, they’re treated like dogs, these men:
Insulted! Then, they have something here
That hurts them, see! It’s terrible, it’s clear
They feel broken, feel themselves damned,
There, screaming beneath you where you stand!
Scum. – Down there girls, infamous, shriek,
Because – well, you knew girls were weak –
Gentlemen of the court – gave all you sought –
You’d spit on their souls, as if they were naught!
Now, your pretty ones are there. They’re scum.
Oh, all the Wretched, whose backs, in the fierce sun
Burn, and yet they still work on and on,
Feeling their heads burst with their exertion,
Hats off, you bourgeoisie! Those are Men.



We are the Workers, Sire! Workers! And then
We’re for the great new age, of knowledge, light,
When Man will forge from morning to night,
Pursuing great effects, chasing great causes,
When he will tame things, slowly victorious,
And like a horse, mount the mighty All!
Oh! Splendour of the forges! And no more
Evil, then! – What’s unknown, its terror maybe
We’ll know! – Hammer in hand, let’s sieve freely
All that we know: then, Brothers, we’ll go on!
Sometimes we dream that dream’s vast emotion
Of the simple ardent life, where you revile
All evil, working beneath the august smile,
Of a woman you love with love’s nobility:
And all day long you labour on proudly,
Hearing the clarion call of duty sounding!
And you feel so happy; and nothing, nothing,
Oh, above all, no-one makes you kneel!
Over the fireplace, there, you’d have a rifle…


Oh! But the air is filled with the scent of battle.
What did I say? I too am one of the rascals!
And there are still sharks and informers.
But we are free! With our moments of terror
When we feel we are great, so great! Just now
I was talking of peaceful work, of how…
Look at that sky! – Too small for us, you see,
If we feared the heat, we’d live on our knees!
Look at that sky! – I’ll return to the crowd,
To the vast fearful mob who cry aloud
And roll your cannon through the cobbles’ sty;


– Oh! We will wash them clean when we die!
– And if, against our cries and our vengeance,
The claws of old gilded kings, all over France,
Urge on their regiments in full battle-dress,
Well then, you lot? Shit to those dogs, no less!’
– He shoulders his hammer once more.
The crowd
Feels soul-drunk close to that man, and now
Through the great courtyard, all those rooms,
Where Paris pants and the voices boom,
A shudder shakes the immense populace.
Then, with his broad hand, its grimy grace
Gilded, while the pot-bellied king sweats,
The Blacksmith set his red cap on that head!
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