At fifteen
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
began his short writing
career with a few dozen traditional poems, which he produced over
a period of three years. (The poems presented here come from
this period.) Around the same time, as a vagabond in Paris, he
began cultivating the image of "maudit" ("cursed")
poet. At eighteen he stopped writing verse and turned to the
prose-poems of "Les Illuminations" and "Une Saison
en Enfer".
By
the time he was twenty, a little over four years into his literary
career, Rimbaud had completely renounced literature as an idiotic
enterprise. The rest of his life was spent entirely outside
the literary world, to all accounts utterly uninterested in the
poetic revolution he knew to be taking place, in his name, in
Paris. After five years' wandering, Rimbaud spent a decade scraping
together a living in Abyssinia as a trafficker in various
goods, among them guns and probably slaves. In 1891 Rimbaud
left Africa with a severe inflammation of his right
leg. Having made it as far as Marseilles, he entered a
hospital and suffered the leg's amputation. A few months
later, in December 1891, Arthur Rimbaud died at the age of 37. (For more
on the life of Arthur
Rimbaud, see Enid Starkie's distinguished biography, Arthur Rimbaud).
Joshua Mehigan
lives in Brooklyn, NY and, until recently, worked as the editor of
Poets & Writers Online. His own poems have appeared or are
forthcoming in Parnassus: Poetry in Review, Ploughshares,
Poetry, and other journals. In 1998 Alysia Peich handprinted Confusing
Weather, a letterpress chapbook of his poems.
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Sensation
Arthur
Rimbaud
(translated
by Joshua Mehigan)
Blue
summer evenings, pricked by stalks of wheat,
I'll
walk the paths, crush short grass where I tread:
Dreaming,
I'll feel its coolness on my feet.
And
I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.
No
words, no thoughts: but in my soul will grow
A
boundless love, and, like a Romany,
Far,
very far, through woods and fields, I'll go,---
Happy
as if a woman walked with me.
Sensation
Par
les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté
par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue:
Rêveur,
j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je
laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.
Je
ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien:
Mais
l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme,
Et
j'irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
Par
la Nature,---heureux comme avec une femme.
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Arthur
Rimbaud, March 1870
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