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The Return of Poetry Corner AKA Arthur Rimbaud

It was just a matter of time until I brought this back. It's been on and off for years, much like Lisa Left Eye Lopes and her football player boyfriend until her untimely death RIP LISA. 


Anyway.


Arthur Rimbaud was an extremely cool French poet before cool even existed. I mean the 1800s, obviously. 


you know he was cool because Leo played him in a film!

Rimbaud grew up an exquisite little terror; he was one of the reasons people are frightened to have children (cough). He slept around with the poet Paul Verlaine and was a general degenerate, as a lot of poets are/can be. That's cool; I'm just calling the pot black here. He traveled around a lot and died in an exotic location of an exotic ailment (ooh) at the age of 37. 

But his legacy! Rimbaud influenced Allen Ginsberg, Bob Dylan and Patti "Just Kids" Smith in the 20th century. See, what did I tell you? COOL.

read on:

Lives


I

      Oh! the huge avenues of the holy land, the terraces of the temple! What has happened to the brahmin who taught me the Proverbs? From then and from there I can still see even the old women! I remember silvery hours and sun near rivers, the hand of the country on my shoulder, and our caresses as we stood in the fiery fields. —A flight of red pigeons thunders around my thoughts—In exile here I had a stage on which to perform the dramatic masterpieces of all literatures. I might tell you about unheard-of wealth. I follow the story of the treasures you found. I see the next chapter! My wisdom is as neglected as chaos is. What is my void, compared with the stupefaction awaiting you?


II

      I am a far more deserving inventor than all those who went before me; a musician, in fact, who found something resembling the key of love. At present, a noble from a meager countryside with a dark sky I try to feel emotion over the memory of mendicant childhood, over my apprenticeship  when I arrived wearing wooden shoes, polemics, five or six widowings, and a few wild escapades when my strong head kept me from rising to the same pitch as my comrades. I don’t miss what I once possessed of divine happiness: the calm of this despondent countryside gives a new vigor to my terrible scepticism. But since this scepticism can no longer be put into effect, and since I am now given over to a new worry—I expect to become a very wicked fool.


III

      In an attic where at the age of twelve I was locked up, I knew the world and illustrated the human comedy. In a wine cellar I learned history. At some night celebration, in a northern city, I met all the wives of former painters. In an old back street in Paris I was taught the classical sciences. In a magnificent palace, surrounded by all the Orient, I finished my long work and spent my celebrated retirement. I have invigorated my blood. I am released from my duty. I must not even think of that any longer. I am really from beyond the tomb, and without work.

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