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Rimbaud When a child, certain skies sharpened my vision: all their characters were reflected in my face. The Phenomena were roused.-- At present, the eternal inflection of moments and the infinity of mathematics drives me through this world where I meet with every civil honor, respected by strange children and prodigious affections.-- I dream of a War of right and of might, of unlooked-for logic. It is as simple as a musical phrase.
This was written when Arthur Rimbaud was 15. He stopped writing at 21, having exhausted every avenue of possiblilty. http://www.art-rimbaud.de/start.html Do yourself a favour. | |
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Absinth!  | |
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Can we please get some LOW art up in here? | |
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That idol, black eyes and yellow mop, without parents or court, nobler
than Mexican and Flemish fables; his domain, insolent azure and verdure, runs over beaches called by the shipless waves, names ferociously Greek, Slav, Celt. At the border of the forest-- dream flowers tinkle, flash, and flare,-- the girl with orange lips, knees crossed in the clear flood that gushes from the fields, nakedness shaded, traversed, dressed by rainbow, flora, sea. Ladies who stroll on terraces adjacent to the sea; baby girls and giantesses, superb blacks in the verdigris moss, jewels upright on the rich ground of groves and little thawed gardens,-- young mothers and big sisters with eyes full of pilgrimages, sultanas, princesses tyrannical of costume and carriage, little foreign misses and young ladies gently unhappy. What boredom, the hour of the "dear body" and "dear heart." II. It is she, the little girl, dead behind the rosebushes. --The young mamma, deceased, comes down the stoop.-- The cousin's carriage creaks on the sand.-- The little brother (he is in India!) there, before the western sky in the meadow of pinks. The old men who have been buried upright in the rampart overgrown with gillyflowers. Swarms of golden leaves surround the general's house. They are in the south.-- You follow the red road to reach the empty inn. The chateau is for sale; the shutters are coming off. The priest must have taken away the key of the church. Around the park the keepers' cottages are uninhabited. The enclosures are so high that nothing can be seen but the rustling tree tops. Besides, there is nothing to be seen within. The meadows go up to the hamlets without anvils or cocks. The sluice gate is open. O the Calvaries and the windmills of the desert, the islands and the haystacks! Magic flowers droned. The slopes cradled him. Beasts of a fabulous elegance moved about. The clouds gathered over the high sea, formed of an eternity of hot tears. III. In the woods there is a bird; his song stops you and makes you blush. There is a clock that never strikes. There is a hollow with a nest of white beasts. There is a cathedral that goes down and a lake that goes up. There is a little carriage abandoned in the copse or that goes running down the road beribboned. There is a troupe of little actors in costume, glimpsed on the road through the border of the woods. And then, when you are hungry and thirsty, there is someone who drives you away. IV. I am the saint at prayer on the terrace like the peaceful beasts that graze down to the sea of Palestine. I am the scholar of the dark armchair. Branches and rain hurl themselves at the windows of my library. I am the pedestrian of the highroad by way of the dwarf woods; the roar of the sluices drowns my steps. I can see for a long time the melancholy wash of the setting sun. I might well be the child abandoned on the jetty on its way to the high seas, the little farm boy following the lane, its forehead touching the sky. The paths are rough. The hillocks are covered with broom. The air is motionless. How far away are the birds and the springs! It can only be the end of the world ahead. V. Let them rent me this whitewashed tomb, at last, with cement lines in relief,-- far down under ground. I lean my elbows on the table, the lamp shines brightly on these newspapers I am fool enough to read again, these stupid books. An enormous distance above my subterranean parlor, houses take root, fogs gather. The mud is red or black. Monstrous city, night without end! Less high are the sewers. At the sides, nothing but the thickness of the globe. Chasms of azure, wells of fire perhaps. Perhaps it is on these levels that moons and comets meet, fables and seas. In hours of bitterness, I imagine balls of sapphire, of metal. I am master of silence. Why should the semblance of an opening pale under one corner of the vault? | |
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| dang .... | |
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I've got a copy of A Season in Hell that's got both the French and the English translation along with photographs by Maplethorpe.
It's a really, really gorgeous book. 
Someday I hope to learn French better. |
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CarrieMpls said: I've got a copy of A Season in Hell that's got both the French and the English translation along with photographs by Maplethorpe.
It's a really, really gorgeous book.
Someday I hope to learn French better. You like Sylvia Plath? | |
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Number23 said: CarrieMpls said: I've got a copy of A Season in Hell that's got both the French and the English translation along with photographs by Maplethorpe.
It's a really, really gorgeous book.
Someday I hope to learn French better. You like Sylvia Plath? What I've read I like, but I haven't read a lot. I've only read the Bell Jar and I've got one book of her poetry at home, can't remember the title now... |
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Graham Robb wrote an excellent biography on Arthur Rimbaud that I've cherished for it's cool information and nice anecdotes. Especially the fights with Verlaine crack me up  and true love lives on lollipops and crisps | |
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Number23 said: You like Sylvia Plath? Sylvia Plath is a whole world on her own. I've only read her poems and "The Bell Jar" along with some bio pieces. Although I would love to find that book of short stories, or is it another complete novel'(it's called "Johnny Panic & the bible of Dreams" or something). Have you read that one? And what's it like? I thought it was odd that all her other work is widely available but that one is nowhere to be found around here. and true love lives on lollipops and crisps | |
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IstenSzek said:
Graham Robb wrote an excellent biography on Arthur Rimbaud that I've cherished for it's cool information and nice anecdotes. Especially the fights with Verlaine crack me up I always picture Sinatra and Dino when I think of Rinbaud and Verlaine.  | |
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Cloudbuster said: Abs in tight lycra!
and true love lives on lollipops and crisps | |
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Number23 said: IstenSzek said:
Graham Robb wrote an excellent biography on Arthur Rimbaud that I've cherished for it's cool information and nice anecdotes. Especially the fights with Verlaine crack me up I always picture Sinatra and Dino when I think of Rinbaud and Verlaine. I have to admit that I am totally unaware of who Dino is Dean Martin? I don't know much about Sinatra either.  and true love lives on lollipops and crisps | |
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IstenSzek said: Number23 said: I always picture Sinatra and Dino when I think of Rinbaud and Verlaine. I have to admit that I am totally unaware of who Dino is Dean Martin? I don't know much about Sinatra either. Aye, Dean Martin. He's my Verlaine. | |
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Ahhh the Drunken Boat...
...But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,
Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether, I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water, neither Monitor nor Hanse ships Would have fished up; Free, smoking, risen from violet fogs, I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky Which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious, Lichens of sunlight mixed with azure snot, Who ran, speckled with lunula of electricity, A crazy plank, with black sea-horses for escort, When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows Skies of ultramarine into burning funnels; I who trembled, to feel at fifty leagues' distance The groans of Behemoth's rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms Eternal spinner of blue immobilities I long for Europe with it's aged old parapets... He would have been fun to drink with.  | |
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Okay, now you got me googling for Rimbaud poems... 
The Star Has Wept Rose-Color
The star has wept rose-colour in the heart of your ears, The infinite rolled white from your nape to the small of your back The sea has broken russet at your vermilion nipples, And Man bled black at your royal side.  | |
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2the9s said: Okay, now you got me googling for Rimbaud poems...
The Star Has Wept Rose-Color
The star has wept rose-colour in the heart of your ears, The infinite rolled white from your nape to the small of your back The sea has broken russet at your vermilion nipples, And Man bled black at your royal side. CrystalTits would like that. | |
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LleeLlee said: 2the9s said: Okay, now you got me googling for Rimbaud poems...
CrystalTits would like that. My jerking motion or the poem? | |
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2the9s said: LleeLlee said: CrystalTits would like that. My jerking motion or the poem? are you calling yourself a jerk? | |
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IstenSzek said: Number23 said: You like Sylvia Plath? Sylvia Plath is a whole world on her own. I've only read her poems and "The Bell Jar" along with some bio pieces. Although I would love to find that book of short stories, or is it another complete novel'(it's called "Johnny Panic & the bible of Dreams" or something). Have you read that one? And what's it like? I thought it was odd that all her other work is widely available but that one is nowhere to be found around here. Now that you mention it, I remember that I've got that one. Orgnote me your address. |
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2the9s said: LleeLlee said: CrystalTits would like that. My jerking motion or the poem? both!  where the sun dont ever shine i will shiver the whole night through | |
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Anxiety said: Can we please get some LOW art up in here?
 | |
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finally a rimbaud post..i thought you people had no taste.. | |
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Ace said: Anxiety said: Can we please get some LOW art up in here?
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