(In 1870, the teenage poet Arthur Rimbaud ran away
from his family home in northern France and wandered
around the Belgian border as a vagabond. Here is a
sonnet he wrote, translated into English.)
For eight long days I'd wrecked my boot soles, trudging
those stony roads. I got to Charleroi -
the Green Bistrot. They brought me bread, grudging,
and meat that was distinctly under-par.
Sheer bliss! I stretched my legs out by the fire,
and ran my eye across crude wall designs.
Things bucked up when the laughing girl-for-hire
with ample chest and lively, knowing eyes
came in with proper food (there can't be much
that that one hasn't done!) Warm buns(!) and butter,
roast ham with garlic, on a dainty platter.
And then she filled my mug (delightful touch!)
with frothing beer. Late sun flared through the door,
to bless my supper. Who could ask for more?
You are:
Another forgotten obituary,
I still:
Shed tears at night,
You are:
So harshly missed,
I still:
Think you are at home,
You are:
Not in Charleroi anymore,
I still:
Write you often,
You are:
Always here.
The Coyle’s curtains are closed,
Coal mines no longer employ,
Might as well destroy,
A once thriving steel town,
The record books should take down,
The history which lies on these streets,
Within these buildings,
Formed by immigrants,
From bare hands and backbones,
Drowned in crime now,
Writhing beneath the poverty line,
Turning to a ghost town,
Charleroi will be no more.