Poems List

Drunken Morning

Drunken Morning

Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good!
Hideous fanfare where yet I do not stumble!
Oh, rack of enchantments!
For the first time, hurrah for the unheard-of work,
For the marvelous body! For the first time!
It began with the laughter of children, and there it will end.
This poison will stay in our veins even when, as the fanfares depart,
We return to our former disharmony.
Oh, now, we who are so worthy of these tortures!
Let us re-create ourselves after that superhuman promise
Made to our souls and our bodies at their creation:
That promise, that madness!
Elegance, silence, violence!
They promised to bury in shadows the tree of good and evil,
To banish tyrannical honesty,
So that we might flourish in our very pure love.
It began with a certain disgust, and it ended -
Since we could not immediately seize upon eternity -
It ended in a scattering of perfumes.
Laughter of children, discretion of slaves, austerity of virgins,
Horror of faces and objects here below,
Be sacred in the memory of the evening past.
It began in utter boorishness, and now it ends
In angels of fire and ice.
Little drunken vigil, blessed!
If only for the mask you have left us!
Method, we believe in you! We never forgot that yesterday
You glorified all of our ages.
We have faith in poison.
We will give our lives completely, every day.
FOR THIS IS THE ASSASSIN'S HOUR.


(translated by Paul Schmidt)
536

Departure

Departure


Everything seen...
The vision gleams in every air.
Everything had...
The far sound of cities, in the evening,
In sunlight, and always.
Everything known...
O Tumult! O Visions! These are the stops of life.


Departure in affection, and shining sounds.
732

Dawn

Dawn


I have kissed the summer dawn. Before the palaces, nothing moved. The water lay
dead. Battalions of shadows still kept the forest road.

I walked, walking warm and vital breath, While stones watched, and wings rose
soundlessly.

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

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

Then one by one, I lifted her veils. In the long walk, waving my arms.

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

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

When I awoke, it was noon.
1,587

Clearance Sale

Clearance Sale

For what the Jews have not sold,
what neither nobility nor crime have tasted,
what is unknown to monstrous love
and to the infernal probity of the masses!


what neither time nor science need recognize: The Voices restored;
fraternal awakening of all choral and orchestral energies
and their instantaneous application; the opportunity, the only one,
for the release of our senses! For sale Bodies without price,
outside any race, any world, any sex, any lineage! Riches gushing at every step!


Uncontrolled sale of diamonds!
For sale anarchy for the masses;
irrepressible satisfaction for rare connoisseurs;
agonizing death for the faithful and for lovers!


For sale colonization and migrations, sports,
fairylands and incomparable comforts,
and the noise and the movement
and the future they make!


For sale the application of calculations
and the incredible leaps of harmony.
Discoveries and terms never dreamed of,
-- immediate possession.


Wild and infinite flight toward invisible splendors,
toward intangible delights-and
its maddening secrets for every vice
-- and its terrifying gaiety for the mob.


For sale, the bodies, the voices,
the enormous and unquestionable wealth,
that which will never be sold.
Salesmen are not at the end of their stock!
It will be some time before travelers have to turn in their accounts.
460

Conclusion

Conclusion


The pigeons which flutter in the meadow,
the game which runs and sees in the dark,
the water animals, the animal enslaved,
the last butterflies!.. also are thirsty.
But to dissolve where that wandering cloud is dissolving -
Oh! Favoured by what is fresh!
To expire in those damp violets
whose awakening fills these woods?
539

Cities Vagabonds

Cities Vagabonds

These are cities!
And this is the people for whom these
Alleghenys and Lebanons of dream have been raised!
Castles of wood and crystal move on tracks and invisible winches.


Old craters ringed with mammoth statues and
coppery palms roar melodiously in flames.
Festivals of love reverberate
from the canals suspended behind the castles.


Chimes echo through the gorges like a chase.
Corporations of giant singers assemble,
their vestments and oriflames
brilliant as the mountain-peaks.


On platforms in the midst of gulfs,
Rolands brazen their bravuras.
From abysmal catwalks and the rooftops of inns,
a burning sky hoists flags upon the masts.


The collapse of apotheosis
unites the heights to the depths
where seraphic shecentaurs
wind among the avalanches.


Above the plateaus of the highest reaches,
the sea, troubled by the perpetual birth of Venus
and loaded with choral fleets amid
an uproar of pearls and precious conches,
grows dark at times with mortal thunder.


On the slopes,
harvests of flowers
as big as our weapons
and goblets are bellowing.


Processions of Mabs in red-opaline scale the ravines.
On high, their feet in the waterfalls and briars,
stags give suck to Diana.


Bacchantes of the suburbs weep,
and the moon burns and howls.
Venus enters the caves
of the black-smiths and hermits.


Clusters of belfries repeat the ideas of the people.
Issues from castles of bone an unknown music.
In the boroughs legends
are born and enthusiasm germinate.


A paradise of storms collapses.
Savages dance without stopping the festival of night.



And, for one hour, I descended into the swarm
of a boulevard of Baghdad
where groups of peple were singing
the joy of the new work,
circulating under a heavy wind
without being able to escape those fabulous phantoms
of the mountains to which one must return.

What good arms, what wondrous hour
will restore to me that region
whence come my slumbers
and least movements?
542

Brussels

Brussels


Boulevard du Régent
July Flowerbeds of amaranths right up to
The pleasant palace of Jupiter. -
I know it is Thou, who is this place,
Minglest thine almost Saharan Blue !


Then, since rose and fir-tree of the sun
And tropical creeper have their play enclosed here,
The little widow's cage !...
What, Flocks of birds, o iaio, iaio !... -


Calm houses, old passions !
Summerhouse of the Lady who ran mad for love.
After the buttocks of the rosebushes,
the balcony Of Juliet, shadowy and very low. -
La Juliette, that reminds me of l'Henriette,
A charming railway station,
At the heart of a mountain, as if the bottom of an orchard
Where a thousand blue devils dance in the air !


Green bench where in stormy paradise,
The white Irish girl sings to the guitar.
Then, from the Guianian dining-room,
Chatter of children and of cages.
The duke's window which makes me think
Of the poison of snails and of boxwood
Sleeping down here in the sun.


And then, It is too beautiful ! too ! Let us maintain our silence. -
Boulevard without movement or business,
Dumb, every drama and every comedy,
Unending concentration of scenes,
I know you and I admire you in silence.


*** Is she an Almeh ?...
in the first blue hours
Will she destroy herself like flowers of fire...
In front of the splendid sweep where one may smell
The enormous flowering city's breath !
It's too beautiful ! It's too beautiful ! but it is necessary -
For the Fisherwoman*
and the Corsair's song,
And also because the last masqueraders still believed
In nocturnal festivities on the pure sea !
698

Being Beauteous

Being Beauteous

Against a fall of snow, a Being Beauiful, and very tall.
Whistlings of death and circles of faint music
Make this adored body, swelling and trembling
Like a specter, rise...
Black and scarlet gashes burst in the gleaming flesh.
The true colors of life grow dark,
Shimmering and sperate
In the scaffolding, around the Vision.


Shiverings mutter and rise,
And the furious taste of these effects is charged
With deadly whistlings and the raucous music
That the world, far behind us, hurls at our mother of beauty...
She retreats, she rises up...
Oh! Our bones have put on new flesh, for love.


Oh ash-white face


Oh tousled hair


O crystal arms!


On this cannot I mean to destroy myself
In a swirling of trees and soft air!
831

Blackcurrant River

Blackcurrant River

Blackcurrant river rolls unknown in strange valleys;
the voices of a hundred rooks go with it,
the true benevolent voice of angles:
with the wide movements of the fir woods
when several winds sweep down.


Everything flows with [the] horrible mysteries of ancient landscapes;
of strongholds visited, of large estates:
it is along these banks that you can hear
the dead passions of errant knights:
but how the wind is wholesome!


Let the traveler look through these clerestories:
he will journey on more bravely.
Forest soldiers whom the Lord sends,
dear delightful rooks! Drive away from here the crafty peasant,
clinking glasses with his old stump of an arm.
533

Antique

Antique


Gracious son of Pan! Around your forehead
crowned with flowerets
and with laurel, restlessly roll
those precious balls, your eyes.


Spotted with brown lees, your cheeks are hollow.
Your fangs gleam. Your breast is like a lyre,
tinklings circulate through your pale arms.
Your heart beats in that belly where sleeps the double sex.
Walk through the night, gently moving that thigh,
that second thigh, and that left leg.
592

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Identification and basic context

Arthur Rimbaud was a French poet, widely regarded as a major figure of Symbolism and a precursor to Surrealism. He was born in Charleville, France, and died in Marseille. His nationality was French, and he wrote exclusively in French. His work emerged during a period of significant social and political upheaval in France, following the Franco-Prussian War and the Paris Commune.

Childhood and education

Rimbaud had a turbulent childhood. His father, an army captain, abandoned the family when Arthur was young, leaving him and his siblings to be raised by their devout and strict mother. He received a classical education at the Collège de Charleville, where he excelled academically and discovered a passion for literature, particularly the works of Victor Hugo and Alfred de Vigny. He was a precocious and rebellious student, often clashing with his teachers.

Literary trajectory

Rimbaud began writing poetry at a very young age, showing remarkable talent and a radical departure from established poetic norms. He ran away from home multiple times, seeking literary circles in Paris and Brussels. His most intense period of writing occurred between the ages of 15 and 20. During this short but explosive period, he produced his most celebrated works, including *A Season in Hell* and *Illuminations*. He collaborated with Paul Verlaine, which led to both creative inspiration and significant personal conflict. By the age of 20, Rimbaud had largely ceased writing poetry, embarking on a life of travel and various unconventional occupations.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Rimbaud's major works include *A Season in Hell* (1873), a prose poem detailing his spiritual and artistic crisis, and *Illuminations* (published posthumously, c. 1886), a collection of prose poems and verse characterized by surreal imagery and innovative language. His poetry often explores themes of rebellion against bourgeois society, the pursuit of the unknown, altered states of consciousness, and the concept of the seer (le voyant) who can access hidden realities. His style is revolutionary: he experimented with free verse, prose poems, and a visionary, often hallucinatory, imagery. He employed a rich, often jarring, vocabulary and syntax, pushing the boundaries of poetic expression. His tone can be ecstatic, despairing, prophetic, or intensely personal.

Cultural and historical context

Rimbaud's work is deeply intertwined with the Symbolist movement, which sought to express subjective experiences and emotions through suggestive symbols and imagery, moving away from the direct representation of reality favored by Realism. He was a contemporary and acquaintance of other major Symbolists like Verlaine and Mallarmé. His life and work challenged the conventions of late 19th-century French society, embodying a spirit of bohemianism and artistic revolt.

Personal life

Rimbaud's personal life was marked by intense relationships, most notably his passionate and destructive affair with fellow poet Paul Verlaine. This relationship involved significant conflict, including Verlaine shooting Rimbaud. After abandoning poetry, Rimbaud traveled extensively, working as a merchant, explorer, and gun-runner in Africa and the Middle East. His experiences in these regions profoundly shaped his later life, though he rarely wrote about them.

Recognition and reception

While Rimbaud achieved some notoriety during his lifetime, especially for his association with Verlaine and his scandalous behavior, his true literary significance was only fully recognized posthumously. *Illuminations* and *A Season in Hell* were published after he had stopped writing, and their profound influence on subsequent generations of poets and artists only grew over time.

Influences and legacy

Rimbaud was influenced by poets like Baudelaire and the Parnassian movement, but he rapidly surpassed them with his radical innovations. His legacy is immense. He is considered a foundational figure for Surrealism, and his ideas about the poet as a seer and the liberation of language have inspired countless writers, artists, and musicians. His concept of deliberately deranging the senses ("dérèglement de tous les sens") to achieve the unknown has been particularly influential.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Interpretations of Rimbaud's work often focus on his exploration of the self, his critique of societal norms, and his attempts to transcend ordinary reality through language and experience. His life story, the legend of the poet-wanderer, often intersects with interpretations of his demanding and elusive poetry. Debates continue regarding the extent to which his later life as an adventurer represented a rejection or a fulfillment of his early poetic visions.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Rimbaud's abrupt abandonment of poetry at such a young age is one of the most compelling mysteries of his life. His later career as a merchant and explorer in Africa is a stark contrast to his earlier life as a poet, leading to much speculation about his motivations and experiences. He was known for his fierce independence and disdain for literary conventions.

Death and memory

Arthur Rimbaud died of cancer in Marseille. His death at a relatively young age only added to his mythic status. His works are now considered cornerstones of modern literature, studied and celebrated worldwide, and his image as the archetypal rebellious poet continues to captivate the imagination.