Disdainful of labours,
disdainful of famines!
Dawn fills you with
a [wound-searching,] cleansing love!
A heavenly sweetness
butters your stamens!
Armand Silvestre
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To the emperor’s peasants!
To the sons of mars,to the glorious 18 March!When heaven blessedthe guts of Eugene!
Her clothes were almost off;
Beat a branch at the windowTo 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 mouthTo her breast, like a fly on a flower.I kissed her…
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud, a French poet, was born Oct.20,1854, in Charleville. His childhood was marred by a ‘cantankerous and vindictive’ mother and by the discipline of the local school, but his poetic virtuosity was extraordinary. By the age of fifteen he had written verse in imitation of the Romanticists (Vers de College,1932) , and one of his teachers, Izambard, introduced him to contemporary poetry. He was fiercely revolutionary, and wrote the words ‘Down with God’ on the public benches of Charleville. He ran away from his native town, twice to Paris and once into Belgium, and once he spent 10 days in prison for travelling by train without a ticket. During these escapades, he wrote such poems as Ma Boheme and Le Cabaret vert.
In november 1893, Rimbaud gave up the writing of poetry and started traveling through Europe on foot. He returned once more to Paris and then disappeared for 16 years. Part of this time he spent in the East, but the greater part was in Ethiopia, where he dealt in contraband firearms, in ivory and gold,…
I.
–On beautiful nights when beer and lemonadeAnd loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need–You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;The wind brings sounds–the town is near–And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .II.–Over there, framed…
Come, the Wines are off to the seaside,
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.
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The lean, the devil’s paladinsThe skeletons of Saladins.Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruffHis little black puppets who grin at the sky,And with a backhander in the head like a kick,Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune!And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms:Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipesWhich once gentle ladies…