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I have English in my heart.
I know how that sounds for a frenchman. Like betrayal, maybe, until I hear what English kept from going quiet. English got the poems, the long thoughts, the little jokes I used as splints.
French is not in my heart.
It’s dans mon corps.
This is one of my all time favourite poems. It stands the test of time despite references to events from the '70s and specifically Australian place names. It is very, very long, uses a lot of repetition and yet reads compulsively.
my friends.
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First Evening (Première Soirée)
by Arthur Rimbaud
Her clothes were almost off;
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.
Perched on my enormous easy chair,
Half nude, she clasped her hands.
Her feet trembled on the floor,
As soft as they could be.
I watched as a ray of pale light,
Trapped in the tree outside,
Danced from her mouth
To her breast, like a fly on a flower.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz
Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off
I love you as certain dark things to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul
I love you as the plant that never blooms
But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body
Untamed temerity
Broke the morning air with an uneven stride,
stole three kisses from a bachelor’s loving bride.
Surely I was happy I had nothing of worth to hide,
been working so hard to turn down my secular pride.
Wave after wave kept rolling on their wetted sand,
kept my powder dry, my canon close to my left hand.
the nihilistic brotherhood of toff’s couldn’t understand,
you pluck no other’s strings if you’re a one man bland.
black room
and beyond white window
the thin shade
blurring the shapes
drifting
overcast
and settling into the low
front moving
slow
dialing up the numbers
with easy fingers
and looking at the
crack in the wall travelling
from the doorframe
to the lamp hanging
down
not expecting
me
not expecting you
ringing
ringing
ringing
haps I should have learned to swim better
maybe it wasn't so smart to paddle out
in a fifteen foot cyclone surf
on a foam board
Mum and Dad
will be so mad
I wonder if
I'll get in trouble?
They say your life
flashes before
your eyes
when you die
this shouldn't
take long,
I'm only
twelve.
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Submitted by Esker on Wed, 2013-01-23 04:48
Rain is speaking
beneath the sky
a paper roams
indifferent filling dark
eyes on font
subtle soft like chalk
a dampness clinging
full of illusions
the pains of growth
healed and broken
I remember our river
chilled with the spring
the slush flowing swift
like blossoms of winter
gardens of lush
knowing
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake
Here the walker suddenly meets the giant
oak tree, like a petrified elk whose crown is
furlongs wide before the September ocean's
murky green fortress.
Northern storm. The season when rowanberry
clusters swell. Awake in the darkness, listen:
constellations stamping in their stalls, high
over tree tops