 |  Arthur Rimbaud was the prototype of the poet as a wayward genius. Born on October 20 1854 in Charville, France, the son of an army captain (who deserted his family when Arthur was 6 years old) A rebel from a young age, at the age of 10 he wrote: "..You have to pass an exam, and the jobs that you get are either to shine shoes, or to herd cows, or to tend pigs. Thank God, I don't want any of that!" This feeling of rebelliousness and alienation grew throughout his life, running away from home at 16, and wandered around aimlessly for almost a year, picking up odd-jobs where he could and spending some time in jail on a vagrancy charge, and is returned home. Rimbaud, now 17, sends some of his poems to Paul Verlaine, who then invites Arthur to join him in Paris. The two begin a tempestuous relationship, which culminates 2 years later (1873) with Rimbaud chasing Verlaine from London to Belgium. When the two finally meet up Verlaine shoots Rimbaud, injuring his wrist. Verlaine is sent to prison for 2 years and Rimbaud returns to Charville , where his mother pays for the publication of his collection 'A Season in Hell'. The following year he returns to London and completes work on his 'Illuminations '. In 1875 he begins to travel widely, Vienna, Strasbourg, Java, Norway and Cyprus. Having not yet reached the age of twenty-one he turns his back on poetry, and arrives in Aden, Africa where asked his name, he replies 'I am an other'. He spends the next 11 years working as a gunrunner and trader, while in Paris his reputation as a visionary poet grows. After falling seriously ill he is brought back to Marseilles in 1891 where he dies (November 10 1891) with his sister Isabelle by his side after complications from a leg amputation.
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Ophelia
I
Where the stars sleep in the calm black stream,
Like some great lily, pale Ophelia floats,
Slowly floats, wound in her veils like a dream.
- Half heard in the woods, halloos from distant
throats.
A thousand years has sad Ophelia gone
Glimmering on the water, a phantom fair;
A thousand years her soft distracted song
Has waked the answering evening air.
The wind kisses her breasts and shakes
Her long veils lying softly on the stream;
The shivering willows weep upon her cheeks;
Across her dreaming brows the rushes lean.
The wrinkled water lilies round her sigh;
And once she wakes a nest of sleeping things
And hears the tiny sound of frightened wings;
Mysterious music falls from the starry sky.
II
O pale Ophelia, beautiful as snow!
Yes, die, child, die, and drift away to sea!
For from the peaks of Norway cold winds blow
And whisper low of bitter liberty;
For a breath that moved your long heavy hair
Brought strange sounds to your wandering thoughts;
Your heart heard Nature singing everywhere,
In the sighs of trees and the whispering of night.
For the voice of the seas, endless and immense,
Breaks your young breast, too human and too sweet;
For on an April morning a pale young prince,
Poor lunatic, sat wordless at your feet!
Sky! Love! Liberty! What a dream, poor young
Thing! You sank before him, snow before fire,
Your own great vision strangling your tongue,
Infinity flaring in your blue eye!
III
And the poet says that by starlight you came
To pick the flowers you loved so much, at night,
And he saw, wound in her veils like a dream,
Like some great lily, pale Ophelia float.
Asleep in the valley
A small green valley where a slow stream flows
And leaves long strands of silver on the bright
Grass; from the mountaintop stream the Sun's
Rays; they fill the hollow full of light.
A soldier, very young, lies open-mouthed,
A pillow made of fern beneath his head,
Asleep; stretched in the heavy undergrowth,
Pale in his warm, green, sun-soaked bed.
His feet among the flowers, he sleeps. His smile
Is like an infant's - gentle, without guile.
Ah, Nature, keep him warm; he may catch cold.
The humming insects don't disturb his rest;
He sleeps in sunlight, one hand on his breast;
At peace. In his side there are two red holes.
First Evening
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 kissed her delicate ankles.
She had a soft, brusque laugh
That broke into shining crystals -
A pretty little laugh.
Her feet ducked under her chemise;
"Will you please stop it!…"
But I laughed at her cries -
I knew she really liked it.
Her eye trembled beneath my lips;
They closed at my touch.
Her head went back; she cried:
"Oh, really! That's too much!
"My dear, I'm warning you…"
I stopped her protest with a kiss
And she laughed, low -
A laugh that wanted more than this…
Her clothes were almost off;
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.
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