Wednesday, June 15, 2011


A  Poem



SENSATION


Through blue summer nights I will pass along paths, 
Pricked by wheat, trampling short grass:
Dreaming, I will feel coolness underfoot,
Will let breezes bathe my bare head.


Not a word, not a thought:
Boundless love will surge through my soul,
And I will wander far away, a vagabond
in Nature--as happily as with a woman.


Arthur Rimbaud   --  March 1870




Rimbaud Complete, Arthur Rimbaud. Wyatt Mason, trans. 
The Modern Library, New York. 2002.

2 comments:

parrish lantern said...

@Pomesallsizes said:

Drunken Morning - Arthur Rimbaud
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 scared 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 our ages. We have faith in poison.
We will give our lives completely, everyday.
For this is the assassin's hour.

@Pomesallsizes

James said...

Thanks for the poem. Rimbaud is endlessly fascinating.