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its treasons ?
ten poems by
arthur rimbaud
(1854-1891)
the lice-seekers
the french title of this poem is au 'cabaret-vert', a bar in charleroi which survived until
quite recently,
but is now a moroccan restaurant with, so far as i could see, not even a
commemorative plaque
in a formerly-industrial town otherwise bereft of literary connections.
les stupra
violations
1.
the animals of old rutted even on the run,
their glanses encrusted with blood and with shit.
our ancestors displayed their organs as befit
the folds of the sheath and the scrotum's grainy dun.
2.
our buttocks aren't like theirs. i have seen diverse
unbuttonings behind shady hedges and banks;
and in pools where children splash and play licentious pranks
i've observed the plan and execution of our arse.
vowels
outside - the cold and hunger and the men on the booze;
ah well! another hour to go - then unspeakable trial.
an assortment of old dewlapped women all the while
are whimpering and whispering and sniffling in their pews
- these are the nervous and the epileptic ones
whom you avoided yesterday off the boulevards;
and, nuzzling ancient missals, sightless as stones,
are the blind whom dogs lead into bleak backyards.
squattings
***
***
o castles! o seasons!
o castles! o seasons!
what heart has not its treasons ?
o castles! o seasons!
o castles! o seasons!