Being Beauteous
Like a specter, rise... Black and scarlet gashes burst in the gleaming flesh...
by Arthur Rimbaud
Being Beauteous
Against a fall of snow, a Being Beauiful, and very tall.
Whistlings of death and circles of faint music
Make this adored body, swelling and trembling
Like a specter, rise...
Black and scarlet gashes burst in the gleaming flesh.
The true colors of life grow dark,
Shimmering and sperate
In the scaffolding, around the Vision.
Shiverings mutter and rise,
And the furious taste of these effects is charged
With deadly whistlings and the raucous music
That the world, far behind us, hurls at our mother of beauty...
She retreats, she rises up...
Oh! Our bones have put on new flesh, for love.
Oh ash-white face
Oh tousled hair
O crystal arms!
On this cannot I mean to destroy myself
In a swirling of trees and soft air!
O Seasons, O Chateaux
1. (From: Fetes de la Patience)
O seasons, O chateaux,
Where is the flawless soul?
O seasons, O chateaux,
The magic study I pursued,
Of happiness, none can elude.
O may it live, each time
The Gallic cock makes rhyme.
Nothing else I desire,
It’s possessed my life entire.
That charm! It’s taken heart and soul
Scattered all my effort so.
Where’s the sense in what I say?
It makes the whole thing fly away!
O seasons, O chateaux!
O Seasons, O Chateaux
2. (From: Une Saison en Enfer)
O seasons, O chateaux!
Where is the flawless soul?
The magic study I pursued,
Of happiness, none can elude.
A health to it, each time
The Gallic cock makes rhyme.
Ah! There’s nothing I desire,
It’s possessed my life entire.
That charm has taken heart and soul
Scattered all my efforts so.
O seasons, O chateaux!
The hour of its flight, alas!
Will be the hour I pass.
O seasons, O chateaux!
Novel
I.
No one's serious at seventeen.
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
--You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.
Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings sounds--the town is near--
And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .
II.
--Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .
June nights! Seventeen!--Drink it in.
Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
The mind wanders, you feel a kiss
On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .
III.
The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels
--And when a young girl walks alluringly
Through a streetlamp's pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
Of her father's starched collar. . .
Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
She turns on a dime, eyes wide,
Finding you too sweet to resist. . .
--And cavatinas die on your lips.
IV.
You're in love. Off the market till August.
You're in love.--Your sonnets make Her laugh.
Your friends are gone, you're bad news.
--Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!
That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
You order beer or lemonade. . .
--No one's serious at seventeen
When lindens line the promenade.
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