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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Le Bateau ivre (“The Drunken Boat”), an Excerpt by Arthur Rimbaud translation by Michael R. Burch The impassive river carried me downstream as howling warriors slashed the bargemen's throats, then nailed them, naked, to their former posts, while I observed all idly, in a dream. What did I care about the slaughtered crew, the Flemish barley or the English freight? The river had taught me how to navigate, but otherwise? It seemed so much “ado.” Drunken Morning, or, Morning of Drunkenness by Arthur Rimbaud translation by Michael R. Burch Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good! Hideous fanfare wherein I won’t stumble! Oh, rack of splendid enchantments! Huzzah for the virginal! Huzzah for the immaculate work! For the marvelous body! It began amid children’s mirth; where too it must end. This poison? ’Twill remain in our veins till the fanfare subsides, when we return to our former discord. May we, so deserving of these agonies, may we now recreate ourselves after our body’s and soul’s superhuman promise— that promise, that madness! Elegance, senescence, violence! They promised to bury knowledge in the shadows—the tree of good and evil— to deport despotic respectability so that we might effloresce pure-petaled love. It began with hellish disgust but ended —because we weren’t able to grasp eternity immediately— in a panicked riot of perfumes. Children’s laughter, slaves’ discretion, the austerity of virgins, loathsome temporal faces and objects— all hallowed by the sacredness of this vigil! Although it began with loutish boorishness, behold! it ends among angels of ice and flame. My little drunken vigil, so holy, so blessed! My little lost eve of drunkenness! Praise for the mask you provided us! Method, we affirm you! Let us never forget that yesterday you glorified our emergence, then each of our subsequent ages. We have faith in your poison. We give you our lives completely, every day. Behold, the assassin's hour! Sensation by Arthur Rimbaud translation by Michael R. Burch On blue summer evenings, I’ll stroll the paths, Pricked by the wheat, tickled by the grass; Dreamily, I’ll feel the freshness at my feet, Breathe the wind, then sigh, complete. I will not speak, nor think, nor muse at all, Yet boundless love will surge within my soul. And I will wander far away, like a gypsy, As happy with Nature as any woman’s company. Rimbaud, English translation, Drunken Boat, river, dream, morning, beautiful, good, body, soul, madness, sensation, children
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