Arthur Rimbaud

I spend my life sitting – like an angel
in the hands of a barber – a deeply fluted beer mug
in my fist, belly and neck curved,
a Gambier pipe in my teeth, under the air
swelling with impalpable veils of smoke.
Like the warm excrements in an old dovecote,
a thousand dreams burn softly inside me,
and at times my sad heart is like sap-wood bled
on by the dark yellow gold of its

While the red-stained mouths
of machine guns ring
Across the infinite expanse of day;
While red or green,
before their posturing King,-
The massed battalions break and melt away;
And while a monstrous frenzy runs a course
That makes of a thousand men a smoking pile
-Poor fools! – dead, in summer, in the grass,
On Nature’s breast, who meant these men to smile;
There is a God, who smiles upon us through
The gleam of gold, the incense-laden air,
Who

For Helen, in the virgin shadows and the
impassive radiance in astral silence,
ornamental saps conspired.
Summer’s ardour was confided
to silent birds and due indolence
to a priceless mourning boat
through gulfs of dead loves
and fallen perfumes.

-After the moment of the woods women’s song
to the rumble of the torrent in the ruin of the wood,
of the tinkle of the cowbells to the echo of the vales,
and the cries of the steppes.
– For Helen’s childhood,

Among the foliage, green casket flecked with gold,
In the uncertain foliage that blossoms
With gorgeous flowers where sleeps the kiss,
Vivid and bursting through the sumptuous tapestry,
…..
A startled faun shows his two eyes
And bites the crimson flowers with his white teeth.
Stained and ensanguined like mellow wine
His mouth bursts out in laughter beneath the branches.
…..
And when he has fled – like a squirrel –
His laughter still vibrates on every leaf
And you can

My hunger, Anne, Anne, flee on your donkey.
If I have any taste, it s for hardly anything
but earth and stones.
Dinn! Dinn! Dinn! Dinn!
Let us eat air, rock, coal, iron.
Turn, my hungers.
Feed, hungers, in the meadow of sounds!
Suck the gaudy poison of the convolvuli;
Eat, the stones a poor man breaks,

the old masonry of churches, boulders,
children of floods, loaves lying in the grey valleys!
Hungers, it is bits of black air; the

I
Truly, they’re stupid, these village churches
Where fifteen ugly chicks soiling the pillars
Listen, trilling out their divine responses,
To a black freak whose boots stink of cellars:
But the sun wakes now, through the branches,
The irregular stained-glass’s ancient colours.
The stone always smells of its earthly mother.
You’ll see masses of those earthy rocks
In the rutting country that solemnly quivers,
And bears, on ochrous paths, near heavy crops,
Those burnt shrubs where the sloe turns bluer,
Those

Her clothes were almost off;
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.
Perched on my enormous easy chair,
Half nude, she clasped her hands.
Her feet trembled on the floor,
As soft as they could be.
I watched as a ray of pale light,
Trapped in the tree outside,
Danced from her mouth
To her breast, like a fly on a flower.
I kissed her delicate ankles.
She had a soft, brusque laugh
That

From a golden step,- among silk cords,
green velvets, gray gauzes,
and crystal disks that
turn black as bronze in the sun,
I see the digitalis opening
on a carpet of silver filigree,
of eyes and hair. Yellow gold-pieces
strewn over agate, mahogany columns supporting
emerald domes, bouquets of white satin
and delicate sprays of rubies,
surround the water-rose.
Like a god with huge blue eyes and limbs of snow,
the sea and sky lure to the marble terraces
the throng of

Come, the Wines are off to the seaside,
and the waves by the million!
Look at wild Bitter rolling from the mountain tops!
Let us reach, like good pilgrims, green-pillared Absinthe…
Myself: No more of these landscapes.
What is drunkenness, friends?
I had soon – rather, even – rot in the pond,
beneath the horrible scum, near the floating driftwood.
-Arthur Rimbaud

He is affection and the present moment because he has thrown
open the house to the snow foam of winter and to the noises of
summer-he who purified drinking water and food-who is the
enchantment fleeing places and the superhuman delight of resting
places.-He is affection and future, the strength and love which we,
erect in rage and boredom, see pass by in the sky of storms and the

One of the voices
Always angelic –
It is about me, –
Sharply expresses itself :
Those thousand questions
Spreading their roots Bring in the end,
Only drunkenness and madness ;
Understand this trick
So gay, so easy :
It is only wave, only flower,
And that is your family !
Then it sings.
O So gay, so easy,
And visible to the naked eye… –
I sing with it, –
Understand this trick
So gay, so easy :
It is only wave, only flower,
And that

I’ve swallowed a terrific mouthful of poison.—Blessings
three times over on the impulse that came to me!—My guts
are on fire. The poison’s violence twists my limbs, deforms
me, knocks me down. I’m dyng of thirst, I’m choking, I can’t
scream. It’s hell, endless pain! Look how the fire flashes
up! I’m burning nicely. Go on, demon!

I’d caught a glimpse of conversion to goodness and happiness,
salvation. Can I

On an evening, for example, when the naive tourist has retired
from our economic horrors, a master’s hand awakens
the meadow’s harpsichord;
they are playing cards at the bottom of the pond,
mirror conjuring up favorites and queens;
there are saints, veils, threads of harmony,
and legendary chromatics in the setting sun.
He shudders as the hunts and hordes go by.
Comedy drips on the grass stages.
And the distress of the poor and of the weak
on those

I only find within my bones, A taste for eating earth and
stones.
When I feed, I feed on air, Rocks and coals and iron ore.
My hunger, turn. Hunger, feed: A field of bran.
Gather as you can the bright, Poison weed.
Eat the rocks a beggar breaks,
The stones of ancient churches’ walls,
Pebbles, children of the flood, Loaves left lying in the mud.
Beneath the bush a wolf will howl, Spitting bright feathers
From

Jeanne-Marie has strong hands; dark hands tanned by
the summer,
pale hands like dead hands. Are they the hands of Donna
Juana?
Did they get their dusky cream colour
sailing on pools of sensual pleasure?
Have they dipped into moons, in ponds of serenity?
Have they drunk heat from barbarous skies, calm upon enchanting
knees?
Have they rolled cigars, or traded in diamonds?
Have they tossed golden flowers at the glowing feet of Madonnas?

It is

Dans la salle à manger brune, que parfumait
Une odeur de vernis et de fruits, à mon aise
Je ramassais un plat de je ne sais quel mets
Belge, et je m’épatais dans mon immense chaise.

En mangeant, j’écoutais l’horloge, – heureux et coi.
La cuisine s’ouvrit avec une bouffée,
Et la servante vint, je ne sais pas pourquoi,
Fichu moitié défait, malinement coiffée

Et, tout en promenant son petit doigt tremblant
Sur sa joue, un velours de

Tisonnant, tisonnant son coeur amoureux sous
Sa chaste robe noire, heureux, la main gantée,
Un jour qu’il s’en allait, effroyablement doux,
Jaune, bavant la foi de sa bouche édentée,
“`
Un jour qu’il s’en allait, “Oremus”, – un Méchant
Le prit rudement par son oreille benoite
Et lui jeta des mots affreux, en arrachant
Sa chaste robe noire autour de sa peau moite!
“`
Châtiment !… Ses habits étaient déboutonnés,
Et le long chapelet des péchés pardonnés
S’égrenant dans son

C’est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D’argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c’est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, lèvre bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l’herbe sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il

Le bras sur un marteau gigantesque, effrayant
D’ivresse et de grandeur, le front vaste, 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 traînant 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

Tandis que les crachats rouges de la mitraille
Sifflent tout le jour par l’infini du ciel bleu ;
Qu’écarlates ou verts, près du Roi qui les raille,
Croulent les bataillons en masse dans le feu ;

Tandis qu’une folie épouvantable, broie
Et fait de cent milliers d’hommes un tas fumant ;
– Pauvres morts dans l’été, dans l’herbe, dans ta joie,
Nature, ô toi qui fis ces hommes saintement!-

– Il est un Dieu qui rit

C’est un large buffet sculpté ; le chêne sombre,
Très vieux, a pris cet air si bon des vieilles gens ;
Le buffet est ouvert, et verse dans son ombre
Comme un flot de vin vieux, des parfums engageants ;

Tout plein, c’est un fouillis de vieilles vieilleries,
De linges odorants et jaunes, de chiffons
De femmes ou d’enfants, de dentelles flétries,
De fichus de grand’mère où sont peints des griffons ;

– C’est là qu’on trouverait

remportée aux cris de vive l’Empereur ! Gravure belge
brillament colorée, se vend à Charleroi, 35 centimes.
——
Au milieu, l’Empereur, dans une apothéose
Bleue et jaune, s’en va, raide, sur son dada
Flamboyant ; très heureux, – car il voit tout en rose,
Féroce comme Zeus et doux comme un papa ;

En bas, les bons Pioupious, qui faisaient la sieste
Près des tambours dorés et des rouges canons,
Se lèvent gentiment. Pitou remet sa veste,
Et, tourné

Seigneur, quand froide est la prairie,
Quand dans les hameaux abattus,
Les longs angélus se sont tus
Sur la nature défleurie
Faites s’abattre des grands cieux
Les chers corbeaux délicieux.

Armée étrange aux cris sévères,
Les vents froids attaquent vos nids !
Vous, le long des fleuves jaunis,
Sur les routes aux vieux calvaires,
Sur les fossés et sur les trous,
Dispersez-vous, ralliez-vous !

Par milliers, sur les champs de France,
Où dorment les morts d’avant-hier,
Tournoyez, n’est-ce pas, l’hiver,
Pour que chaque

Ceux qui disent : Cré Nom, ceux qui disent macache,
Soldats, marins, débris d’Empire, retraités,
Sont nuls, très nuls, devant les Soldats des Traités
Qui tailladent l’azur frontière à grands coups d’hache.

Pipe aux dents, lame en main, profonds, pas embêtés,
Quand l’ombre bave aux bois comme un mufle de vache,
Ils s’en vont, amenant leurs dogues à l’attache,
Exercer nuitamment leurs terribles gaîtés!

Ils signalent aux lois modernes les faunesses.
Ils empoignent les Fausts et les Diavolos.
“Pas

Noirs dans la neige et dans la brume,
Au grand soupirail qui s’allume,
Leurs culs en rond,

À genoux, cinq petits, – misère ! –
Regardent le boulanger faire
Le lourd pain blond…

Ils voient le fort bras blanc qui tourne
La pâte grise, et qui l’enfourne
Dans un trou clair.

Ils écoutent le bon pain cuire.
Le boulanger au gras sourire
Chante un vieil air.

Ils sont blottis, pas un ne bouge,
Au souffle du soupirail rouge,
Chaud comme un sein.

Et quand