Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

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A Dream For Winter



In the winter, we will leave in a small pink railway carriage
With blue cushions. We will be comfortable.
A nest of mad kisses lies In each soft corner.
You will close your eyes, in order not to see, through the glass,
The evening shadows making faces.
Those snarling monstrosities, a populace
Of black demons and black wolves.
Then you will feel your cheek scratched...
A little kiss, like a mad spider, Will run around your neck...
And you will say to me: "Get it!" as you bend your neck -
And we will take a long time to find that creature -
Which travels a great deal...

Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

A Winter Dream



In winter we’ll travel in a little pink carriage
With cushions of blue.
We’ll be fine. A nest of mad kisses waits
In each corner too.

You’ll shut your eyes, not to see, through the glass,
Grimacing shadows of evening,
Those snarling monsters, a crowd going past
Of black wolves and black demons.

Then you’ll feel your cheek tickled quite hard…
A little kiss, like a maddened spider,
Will run over your neck…

And you’ll say: “Catch it!” bowing your head,
– And we’ll take our time finding that creature
– Who travels so far…

Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

Flowers



From a golden step,-- among silk cords,
green velvets, gray gauzes,
and crystal disks that
turn black as bronze in the sun,
I see the digitalis opening
on a carpet of silver filigree,
of eyes and hair. Yellow gold-pieces
strewn over agate, mahogany columns supporting
emerald domes, bouquets of white satin
and delicate sprays of rubies,
surround the water-rose.

Like a god with huge blue eyes and limbs of snow,
the sea and sky lure to the marble terraces
the throng of roses, young and strong.

Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

Romance



I

When you are seventeen you aren't really serious.
- One fine evening, you've had enough of beer and lemonade,
And the rowdy cafes with their dazzling lights!
- You go walking beneath the green lime trees of the promenade.

The lime trees smell good on fine evenings in June!
The air is so soft sometimes, you close your eyelids;
The wind, full of sounds, - the town's not far away -
Carries odours of vines, and odours of beer...

II

- Then you see a very tiny rag
Of dark blue, framed by a small branch,
Pierced by an unlucky star which is melting away
With soft little shivers, small, perfectly white......

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Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

Stolen Heart



My sad heart slobbers at the poop
my heart covered with tobacco-spit
They spew streams of soup at it
My sad heart drools at the poop
Under the jeerings of the soldiers
who break out laughing
my sad heart drools at the poop
my heart covered with tobacco-spit.

Ithypallic and soldierish
Their jeerings have depraved it
In the rudder you see frescoes
Ithypallic and soldierish
O, abracadabratic waves
Take my heart, let it be washed!

Ithypallic and soldierish
their jeerings have depraved it....

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Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

The Poor Man Dreams



Perhaps an Evening awaits me
when I shall drink I peace in some old Town,
and die the happier: since I am patient!
If my pain submits, if I ever have any gold,
shall I choose the North or the Country of Vines? …
- Oh! It is shameful to dream - since it is pure loss!
And if I become once more the old traveler,
never can the green inn be open to me again.

Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

The Stolen Heart



My sad heart leaks at the poop,
My heart covered in filthy shag:
They squirt it with jets of soup,
My sad heart leaks at the poop:
Under the jibes of that rough troop
Drowned in laughter, see them rag,
My sad heart leaks at the poop,
My heart covered in filthy shag!

Ithyphallic and coarse, their jests
They’ve corrupted it every way!
On the wheelhouse their grotesques,
Ithyphallic and coarse their jests.
O waves, abracadabrantesque,
Take my heart, wash all away!
Ithyphallic and coarse their jests,
They’ve corrupted it every way!...

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Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

To Music



On the square which is chopped into mean little plots of grass,
The square where all is just so, both the trees and the flowers,
All the wheezy townsfolk whom the heat chokes bring
Each Thursday evening, their envious silliness.

- The military band, in the middle of the gardens,
Swing their shakos in the Waltz of the Fifes :
Round about, near the front rows, the town dandy struts ;
- The notary hangs like a charm from his own watch chain.

Private incomes in pince-nez point out all false notes :
Great counting-house desks, bloated, drag their stout spouses
Close by whom, like bustling elephant keepers,
Walk females whose flounces remind you of sales ;...

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Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

To The Poet On The Subject Of Flowers



Thus continually towards the dark azure,
Where the sea of topazes shimmers,
Will function in your evening
The Lilies, those pessaries of ectasy!

In our own age sago,
When Plants work for their living,
The Lily will dring blue loathings
From you religious Proses!

- Monsieur de Kerdrel's fleur-de-lys,
The Sonnet of eighteen-thirty,
The Lily they bestow on the Bard
Together with the pink and the amaranth!

Lilies! lilies! None to be seen!
Yet in your Verse, like the sleeves...

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Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

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