Arthur Rimbaud - Rimbaud: The Works: A Season in Hell; Poems & Prose; Illuminations

Rimbaud: The Works A Season In Hell; Poems & Prose; Illuminations
Translated from the French with notes and commentary by Dennis J. Carlile Illustrations by Alexia Montibon Copyright 2000 by Dennis J. Carlile.

Miller: The Time of the Assassins In the heat, flaunt their rival stupidities. Mid-garden, the military band is Swinging its plumes to the Waltz of the Fifes: Around them, down front, parade the dandies; Notaries dangle their graven trifles. Stockholders in glasses note every blat: Bloated big-deskers drag their wives so fat That, like elephant-keepers by their side, Their women walk with flounces billboard-wide. The retired grocers club, on green benches, Poke the sand with gnarly canes, take a snort From silver boxes, talk trade agreements Very gravely, continuing: In short!... The globes of his butt spread over the bench, A town man, button-bright, with Flemish paunch, Sucks his pipe full of shredded tobacco Overflowingblack market, dont you know; Along the green turf hoodlums jeer and hoot; And, all horny from when the trombones played, Simply reeking of roses, raw recruits Cuddle babies to woo the nursery maid Like an unkempt student, I follow sweet Young girlies under the green chestnut trees: They know what Im up to, and turn to me Laughing, their eyes full of things indiscreet. I dont say a word: I just keep staring At their plump white necks, with stray locks twirled: I follow, under blouse and frail array, Past their shoulders, the divine dorsal curve.

Soon Ive revealed the booty, the stocking I re-imagine the flesh, burning with bliss. They find me queer, they whisper mockery And my rough desires fasten on their lips You Dead of 92 Morts de Quatre-vingt-douze ... Frenchman of 70, Conservatives, Liberals, remember your forefathers in 92 etc.Paul de Cassagnac The Nation You Dead of Ninety-two and Ninety-Three, Calm and pale from the rough kiss of liberty, Whove shattered underfoot the yoke that weighs On the soul and brow of all humanity; Exalted men, standing tall when storms rage, You whose hearts jumped for love underneath rags, O Soldiers whom Death, proud Lover, has sown In all the old furrows to make them grow; You whose blood washed every filthy greatness, Dead of Italy, Valmy, and Fleurus, O Christs by the million with soft dark eyes; We let you sleep alongside the Republic, We who cringe under kings like a cudgel, The Newspapermen rehash your history! Venus Rising From the Waves Vnus Anadyomne From an old green zinc bathtub like a coffin A womans brunette head emerges, slow And stupid, and heavily pomaded, With its bald spots rather badly hidden. Then the neck shows gross and grey, the broad flab Shoulder blades, the squat back bunching bulges; Then the rounding butt seems ready to soar, The underskin blubber in leafy slabs. The backbone blushes a little, the whole thing reeks, Weirdly horrific; you notice especially The oddities youll need a jewelers loupe to see Two engraved words on the ass: Clara Venus; And all of that flesh moves, thrusting its big rump, Hideous beauty with a cankered anus. First Evening Premire soire She was very nearly undressed now And the big trees curiously Beat their leaves against the window, Closer and closer, knowingly.

Half-naked in my great big chair She sat with hands clasped together. Her tiny feet so fine, so fair Shuddered on the floor in pleasure. I watched a little hopalong Glint the color of a wax-light Fluttering on her smile and on Her breastsOn the roses, a fly. I kissed her delicate ankles. She gave a laugh, sweet and brutal, In a husky spill of clear trills, A pretty laugh made of crystal. Her quick little feet absconded Underneath her slip: Hey, stop it! My first bold move permitted, Her laugh pretends to punish it.

I kissed her gently on the eyes, Poor trembling things beneath my touch. She tossed her head back with a sigh Of roguery: Oh, youre too much!... Mister, we need to have a chat What was left I lay on her breast In a kissing that made her laugh The good laugh willing all the rest She was very nearly undressed now And the big trees curiously Beat their leaves against the window, Closer and closer, knowingly. What Nina Said Les Rparties de Nina 15 August 1870 HE: Your breast on my chest, Hey? we could go, Filling our nostrils with air, Into the cool rays Of lovely morning blue that bathes You in the wine of day?... When the whole shivering wood bleeds Mute with love From every branch, green droplets, Bright buddings, You sense in open things The quivering flesh: Youd plunge into the alfalfa Your white peignoir, Turning rosy in the azured air Around your huge dark eyes, Amorous for the countryside, Scattering everywhere Your playful laughter, Like foaming champagne: Laughing at me, roughly drunken, Whod catch you Like thisby your lovely hair, Oh!whod drink up Your taste of raspberry, strawberry, O flowery flesh! Laughing at the quick wind kissing you Like a thief, At the wild rose pricking you Pleasantly: Laughing most of all, oh madcap, At your lover!... ) Your breast on my chest, Mingling our voices, Slowly, wed reach the ravine, Then the tall woods!... ) Your breast on my chest, Mingling our voices, Slowly, wed reach the ravine, Then the tall woods!...

Then, like a lifeless little thing, Heart swooning, Youd let me carry you With eyes half-closed Id carry you quivering, Along the pathway: The bird would spin its andante: By the Hazeltree Ill speak to you in your mouth; Ill go on, pressing Your body like a child at bedtime, Drunk on the blood That runs blue under your skin, White with rosy tones: And speak to you with a bold tongue There!... so you know Our lofty woodsll smell of sap, And the sun will Shower gold-dust on their tall, green And vermilion dream. * * * Evening?... Well take the white Road again, which Meanders in every direction Like a grazing flock The fine orchards of blue grass And gnarly apple trees! How their strong perfume can be Scented a league away! Well get back to the village Under a twilit sky; And the smell of milking will fill The evening air; It will smell of the stable, full Of warm manure, Full of the slow rhythm of breathing And broad backs Turning white under whatever light; And yonder, A cow proudly crapping At every step Grandmas glasses And her long nose In her prayerbook; the pot of beer Circled in pewter, Foaming among the big pipes Fearlessly fuming; The scary big lips Which, while puffing, Snap up forkfuls of ham So much, much more: The fire brightening the bedsteads And the cupboards. The plump shiny buttocks Of the fat baby Who crawls about nuzzling cups With his pale snout Tickled by a growling muzzle Soft and gentle, Licking the chubby face Of the little dear (Dark, haughty on the edge of her chair, With a frightening profile, An old woman keeps to her spinning In front of the embers.) What things well see, sweetie, In these hovels When the flames brightly illuminate Those grimy windowpanes!... Then, little and nestled Among the lilies Dark and cool: the hidden window Laughing over there Youll come, youll come! I love you! Itll be so fine! You will come, wont you? even so SHE: And lose my job? The Runaways Les Effars 20 September 1870 Dark against the snow and fog, At the big lit-up vent, Their butts in a huddle, Five urchins, kneelingwretched! Watch the Baker making Loaves of heavy blond bread.