Share:
  Guess poet | Poets | Poets timeline | Isles | Contacts

Arthur Rimbaud - What One Says To The Poet On The Subject Of FlowersArthur Rimbaud - What One Says To The Poet On The Subject Of Flowers
Work rating: Low


I Thus, ever, towards the azure night Where there quivers a topaz sea, Will function in your evening light The Lilies, those clysters of ecstasy! In our own age of sago, as they must, Since all the Plants are workers first, The Lilies will drink a blue disgust, From your religious Prose, not verse! The Lily of Monsieur de Kerdrel The sonnet of eighteen thirty, the plant, That Lily, they bestow on ‘The Minstrel’ With the carnation and the amaranth! Lilies! Lilies! You see never a one! Yet in your Verses, like the Sinners’ Sleeves, those of soft-footed women, Always those white flowers shiver! Always, Dear, when you take a bathe, Your Shirt with yellow armpits rots Swells to the breeze of rising day, Above the soiled forget-me-nots! Love, only, through your nets Smuggles Lilies O unequal! And the Woodland Violets, The dark Nymphs’ sugary spittle!... II O Poets, if you could but own To the red on the laurel’s firm stem To the Roses, the Roses, blown, With a thousand octaves swollen! If BANVILLE could make them snow, Blood-stained, whirling in gyrations, Blacking the eye of that stranger so, Who sees wicked interpretations! In your forests, by your paths, O so placid photographers! Like the stoppers on carafes, The Flora’s more or less diverse! Always the vegetables, French, Absurd, consumptive, up for a fight, Bellies of basset hounds they drench, Peacefully passed in evening light; Always, after fearful drawings Of blue Lotus or that Sunflower, Pink prints, subjects befitting Girls in communion’s sweet hour! The Asoka Ode agrees with the Loretto window stanza; showers Of bright butterflies, heavy, flutter, Dunging on the daisy flowers. Old verdures, old braided ribbons! O vegetable biscuit bakes! Fantastic flowers of old Salons! For cockchafers, not rattlesnakes, Those vegetable dolls in tears Grandville would have mislaid In the margin, sucking colours From spiteful stars with eye-shades! Yes, the drooling of your flutes Produces precious sugar! Heaps of fried eggs in old boots, Lily, Lilac, Rose, Asoka!... III O white Hunter, running through, Stocking-less, the Panic field, Shouldn’t you, couldn’t you Acquire a little botany? You’d have succeed, I’m afraid, To russet Crickets, Spanish Fly, Rio golds to Rhine blue, Norway To Florida, in the blink of an eye: But, Dear, art cannot, for us, It’s true –  permit, it’s wrong, To the astounding Eucalyptus, Boa-Constrictors, hexameter-long; There…! As if Mahogany Served, even in our Guiana, Only the Capuchin monkey To ride the mad weight of liana! In short, a single Flower: is it, Lily or Rosemary, live or dead, Worth a spot of sea-gull’s shit, Worth a candle drip, I said? And I mean what I say, mind! Even you, squatting there, in one Of those bamboo-huts blind Shut, behind brown Persian curtain You’d scrawl about things floral Worthy of some wild Oise department!... Poet, yet that’s a rationale No less laughable than it’s arrogant! IV Speak, not of pampas in the spring, Black with terrible rebellions, But of tobacco, cotton growing! Speak of exotic harvest seasons! Speak, white brow that Phoebus tanned, Of how many dollars Pedro Velasquez of Havana earned; En-shit the Bay of Sorrento Where in thousands rest the Swans; Let your stanzas undertake The draining of the mangrove swamps, Filled with hydras, water-snakes! Your quatrains plunge in blood-wet groves Return, bringing Humanity Diverse offerings, sugars, cloves, Lozenges and rubber-trees! Let us know if the yellowness Of snowy Peaks, near the Tropic, Is prolific insect’s nests Or lichens microscopic! Seek, O Hunter, our wish what’s more, Diverse fragrant madders, That, for our Army, Nature Might cause to bloom in trousers! Seek, beside the slumbering Glades, Flowers that look like muzzles, oh, Out of which drip gold pomades, On the dark hide of the buffalo! Seek wild fields, where in the Blue Trembles the silver of pubescence, Calyxes of fiery eggs that brew Steeped in burning oily essence! Seek the Thistle’s cotton-bin, Whose downy wool ten asses With ember eyes toil to spin! Seek flowers which are chassis! Yes, seek at the heart of black seams Nigh-on stone-like flowers marvels! That near their hard pale ovaries Bear soft gemmiferous tonsils! Serve us, O Crammer, as you can, On a fine vermilion platter Stews of syrupy Lilies, plan To corrode our German silver! V Many will sing of Love sublime, The thief of sombre Indulgence: Not Renan, nor Murr the cat, I’m Sure, know Thyrsi, blue, immense! You’ll quicken, in our torpors, Hysterias, through your fragrances; Exalt us towards candours Purer than Marys’ whitenesses… Colonist! Trader! Medium! Your Rhyme, pink, white, will be A welling ray of sodium, A well-tapped dripping rubber-tree! From your dark Poems Juggler! Let dioptric white, green, red, Burst out like strange flowers, Electric butterflies instead! See! It’s the Century of hell! Telegraph poles will honour A lyre, where steel songs swell, Your magnificent shoulder! Rhyme us above all a version On the ills of potato blight! And to aid the composition Of Poems of mysterious light To be read from Tréguier To Paramaribo, don’t forget To buy Tomes by Monsieur Figuier, Illustrated from Monsieur Hachette!
Source

The script ran 0.002 seconds.