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Bound
By a way
A way to owning a stay
That has a coughing, a stink, and a sound

Drums and guitars
Finish me with a borrowed smile
Giving you hell, is what were here for
Weight ... and the singing comes for a while

Two
Hunt and ****, rhyming
Proud, in the name of who
Sincerely, the lips of avarice, are shining

Out of the way
Many more, many more for once and none
Silver comes into view, with it to say
When I see you, I keep a heat, from...

Silver wounds...
Liberty in motion, life to a tale
Of a person; Character gives what it looms
Country's with adding few, look lover, secrets know doom

Dread meeting's, with continue...
Life to a wish, whispering in the wind
Same thumb, same finger of luck, around
Meaning the curious, high wishes, and a mercy

Music for the masses
*******, suicide...
For the wind, is a hungry kiss's
Ready to live in the shadow of a night...
little stare of bet you caught it two...
Caio Gomes Mar 19
Uma sensação de leveza,
de extensão breve e duradoura.

Um arrepio percorre a nuca,
permeia o corpo,
e transborda em um arrepio.

Por uma melodia ou poesia
que ataca e rebate,
tocando a alma,
comovente
emoção elevadora.

Sensação infinita na infinidade.

Oh, se ao menos sempre tivesse sido,
para permanecer aqui, sempre.

Deleite e bem-aventurança, alegria e prazer,
emoção no olhar lacrimoso do coração,
alegria no sorriso da mente.

Se ao menos pudesse permanecer, sempre...
Prazer.
Escrevi este poema inspirado pela sensação de ouvir uma determinada música.
These are my English translations of French poems by Arthur Rimbaud...

Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide
... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ...
Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ...
Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry.

For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro.
For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly,
Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow.

For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river.
For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness
Ophelia has made this river shiver.



Le Bateau ivre (“The Drunken Boat”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The impassive river carried me downstream
as howling warriors slashed the bargemen's throats,
then nailed them, naked, to their former posts,
while I observed all idly, in a dream.

What did I care about the slaughtered crew,
the Flemish barley or the English freight?
The river had taught me how to navigate,
but otherwise? It seemed so much “ado.”



Drunken Morning, or, Morning of Drunkenness
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good!
Hideous fanfare wherein I won’t stumble!
Oh, rack of splendid enchantments!

Huzzah for the virginal!
Huzzah for the immaculate work!
For the marvelous body!

It began amid children’s mirth; where too it must end.
This poison? ’Twill remain in our veins till the fanfare subsides,
when we return to our former discord.

May we, so deserving of these agonies,
may we now recreate ourselves
after our body’s and soul’s superhuman promise—
that promise, that madness!
Elegance, senescence, violence!

They promised to bury knowledge in the shadows—the tree of good and evil—
to deport despotic respectability
so that we might effloresce pure-petaled love.
It began with hellish disgust but ended
—because we weren’t able to grasp eternity immediately—
in a panicked riot of perfumes.

Children’s laughter, slaves’ discretion, the austerity of virgins,
loathsome temporal faces and objects—
all hallowed by the sacredness of this vigil!

Although it began with loutish boorishness,
behold! it ends among angels of ice and flame.
My little drunken vigil, so holy, so blessed!
My little lost eve of drunkenness!
Praise for the mask you provided us!
Method, we affirm you!

Let us never forget that yesterday
you glorified our emergence, then each of our subsequent ages.
We have faith in your poison.
We give you our lives completely, every day.
Behold, the assassin's hour!



L'Eternité (“ Eternity”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where does Eternity dwell?
In the sea,
run beyond the setting sun.

Implacable Sentinel,
murmuring the soul’s confessions
of night’s barrenness
and days ablaze.

Inhuman votary!
Free of human impulses
and penitence,
you flee accordingly.

Since the beginning of time
you have stood alone,
amid shimmering embers,
exuding voicelessly:

“There is no hope,
no logical orientation,
no future revelation of patient science,
only the inhuman torture.”

Where does Eternity dwell?
In the sea,
run beyond the setting sun.



Les Illuminations II: Enfance (“Childhood”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

II.

The little girl lies dead, behind the rosebushes. – The young mother, deceased, descends the steps. – The cousin’s carriage squeaks through sand. – The little brother (he’s in India!) lies facing the sunset in a meadow of carnations. – The old ones are buried upright in ramparts overgrown with wallflowers.

Swarms of golden leaves surround the General’s house. They’re in the south. – Follow the red road to arrive at the empty inn. The chateau’s for sale; its shutters flap. – The priest’s taken the key to the church. – The keepers’ cottages are tenantless, the fences so high only rustling treetops are visible. Oh well, there’s nothing much to be seen, besides.

The meadows rise to hamlets without roosters, without anvils. The sluice gate is raised, the waters rise. O the wilderness’s crosses and windmills, its islands and millstones!

Magic flowers buzzed. Embankments cradled him. Creatures of fabulous elegance encircled him. Clouds accumulating over open seas unleashed an eternity of warm tears.

IV.

I am the saint praying on the portico, watching docile beasts graze down to Palestine’s sea.

I am the scholar in the dark armchair as whipping branches and rain hurl themselves at the library’s shutters.

I am the pedestrian on the path through stunted woods; the ****** of clicking locks anticipates my steps. For a long time I pause to ponder the sunset’s melancholy golden demise.

I am the child abandoned on the jetty jutting out toward the high seas, the small valet whose forehead brushes the sky as he navigates an alley.

The trails are rough, their mounds haired with broom. The air is so still, so silent! How distant, the birds and the rills! The end of the world must lie ahead.



Illuminations VIII: Départ (“Departure”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ve seen enough: the same vision encountered under all skies.

I’ve had enough: the rumors of cities, by night and by day, the same light, always.

I’ve known enough: life’s tedious decrees, its rumors and visions!

It’s time for departure into new affections, new noises!



Sensation
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On blue summer evenings, I’ll stroll the paths,
Pricked by the wheat, tickled by the grass;
Dreamily, I’ll feel the freshness at my feet,
Breathe the wind, then sigh, complete.

I will not speak, nor think, nor muse at all,
Yet boundless love will surge within my soul.
And I will wander far away, like a gypsy,
As happy with Nature as any woman’s company.



Antico (“Ancient” or “Antique”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Graceful son of Pan! Around your brow, crowned with flowers and berries, your eyes, lustrous spheres, revolve. Your cheeks, stained with wine sediments, seem hollow. Your white fangs gleam. Your lyre-like chest! Chords pour from your blonde arms! Strong heartbeats resound in the abdomen where the double *** sleeps! You stalk the night, gently moving first this thigh, then the other, then the left leg.



Song of the Highest Tower
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.

I’ve endured so long
That I’d even forgotten
The pain and the terror.
I’ve visited heaven,
And yet a morbid thirst
Still darkens my veins.

Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.

Thus the neglected meadow
Given over to oblivion
Flowered, overgrown
With weeds and incense
As hordes of filthy flies
Buzzed nearby.

Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.



Rêvé Pour l'hiver (“Winter Dream”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come winter, we’ll leave in a little pink carriage
With blue cushions. We’ll be comfortable,
snuggled in our nest of crazy kisses.
You’ll close your eyes, preferring not to see, through the darkening glass,
The evening’s shadows leering.
Those snarling monstrosities, that pandemonium
of black demons and black wolves.
Then you’ll feel your cheek scratched...
A little kiss, like a crazed spider, will tickle your neck...
And you’ll say to me: "Get it!" as you tilt your head back,
and we’ll take a long time to find the crafty creature,
the way it gets around...



Dawn
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I embraced the august dawn.

Nothing stirred the palaces. The water lay dead still. Battalions of shadows still shrouded the forest paths.

I walked briskly, dreaming the gemlike stones watched as wings soared soundlessly.

My first adventure, on a path now faintly aglow with glitterings, was a flower who whispered her name.

I laughed at the silver waterfall teasing me nakedly through pines; then on her summit, I recognized the goddess.

One by one, I lifted her veils, in that tree-lined lane, waving my arms across the plain, as I notified the ****.

Back to the city, she fled among the roofs and the steeples; scrambling like a beggar down the marble quays, I chased her.

Above the road near a laurel thicket, I caught her in gathered veils and felt her immense body. Dawn and the child collapsed together at the edge of the wood.

When I awoke, it was noon.
These are English translations of French poems by Arthur Rimbaud.
genuine

so many ordinary bees in our vocab hive,
workers, important, but rarely seen,
some never, or rarely trotted out,
no-fresh air, we just must be too too, too
busy, busy

had occasion to employ said titular
queen word recently, a love story
that strummed a chord of the
randomness of good love,
genuine slipped out unexpectedly,
this word, a crowning modifier to a
love poem herein written

truly a word not used too often,
perhaps because we live in a time
when it is a quality rare, though
much celebrated, like so much,
has becomes a debated talking point

but genuine is not hard to be
uncovered, it has a warmth heater
generator internal, a signal signal,
that is hard to be disguised or
mistaken

but our sensitivities are dulled,
easily misled, by the shouting and
the latent bitterness that runs through
the veins of our ordinary conversations,
making it more difficult to believe our
five sensory discernments, to what is,
and what is not,

but love, perhaps, is a genuine genetic,
at a cellular level quality that has evolved over millennia, so easier to spot, it’s heated hot, and awhy a love story should be the focus causation of my happiness, that it
yet thrives, and functions and supplies
we humans, a chance to see, to believe,
that genuine yet exists, inward and
unwarped, within we ordinaries
for a.v.

MLK  Day 2025
FEEL THE VIBE,
feeling ALIVE,
as I Slip and slide,
and go on and glide!!
Be SMOOTH with it,
Go on and STRUT,
Keep on Stepping
You can't get enough
Feel the GROOVE!!
Feel the SENSATION,
get up and move,
Musical sounds of CREATION!!
the SOUNDS OF MUSIC
That helps to soothe
They say Music
soothe the
SAVAGE BEAST,
So, Jam along with us,
GET WITH THE BEAT
You don't have
NO RHYTHM
You can't find
your GROOVE
Just let the music
flow through you....
NOW, get up and MOVE!!!


B.R.
Date: 03/3/2023
Trinkets Dec 2024
some dream of warmth
some dream of flying

some spend mornings lying
balancing on the edge
between sleep and awake

half dreamt images
of dancing flames
closeness
heat warming their face

or lingering sensations
of falling
remembering soaring
through the sky


meeting someone
share the dream
such a rarity

find and be found
instead of searching
the reason we search

few words needed
when minds mere touch
feel like home

to know already
the smile in your voice
to words not said

the touch of your hand
in mine
without holding

few words needed
none allowed

to share a dream
is unspoken


there had been signs to indicate
you too hid matches in your coat

if one were to find them now
others not to be ignored
remember

tasting on your skin
a silent longing for
someone to share your skies


nothing now in your eyes
but squinting back to see

attempts at finding
wordless answers

some do not remember dreams
they have but half dreamt images
lingering sensations

if you had but asked
if only I had shared
I never wanted flying

I dream of fires
KHY Nov 2024
my fingers are laced in a chalice
of drugs that **** my sensations.
i used to resist them as a loner—
until the white coat angel
ignited my fouls with
radio-**** tweaking.

now i sprawl in expiring
fictions that come anew
and reprint their additives;
making me a king
of numbers, of colours,
of game.

until my world is all
mold and brain.
Amina Oct 2024
Call: Where are you?
Answer:... (Collecting Flowers)
I'm here and there
I'm every where beside you.
11.00am
the light comes in the room
Yesterday Saousan said: try numbers
Edoardo Alaimo Mar 2024
Amo sorridere,
Voglio volare,
Spingere, spingere fuori,
Andare, andare, andare

Fissarti il colore degli occhi e basta oppure guardare e fantasticare

Vorrei vibrare, vibrare
Come foglie al vento
Come un albero secolare
Movimenti in ogni direzione

Sento il mio cuore che segue il tamburo che segue il rumore che sento rombare

Esplorare il verde, il verde
Chiusi gli occhi al vento e al sole
Pelle morta che si libera nell'aria
Voglio odore, odore, odore

Sentirti un profumo inebriante come un esplosione che saturi tutto tra naso e sapore

Voglio andare piano o veloce
Costruirmi, costruire, costruire
Le braccia tese all'infuori,
e stringersi a sé stessi

Voglio abbracciare con il petto e con le mani ed incendiare e bruciare le vene e il cuore

Voglio creare,
fare cazzate,
Gioire, soffrire, amare,
Capire, vivere, baciare,

Voglio annegare e gustare le mucose e la bocca ed il silenzio e l'immenso

e come un cotone galleggiare
Weaving a new cotton sheet, a piece dedicated to experiences, the senses, and the sensations. More of a stream of consciousness of reality, yours. Mine. Who knows.

E.A.
Jellyfish Nov 2023
I step in the shower
It feels like it's been hours
Since I turned the faucet on
but the transition makes me pause

I push the curtain to either side,
Making sure it lines the walls,
Spills are something I avoid
Then I can face the waterfall

It surrounds my every fiber
I start to feel like it's a part of me
I connect with my body,
Closing my eyes and remembering

But a loud noise startles me
I hate the anger I feel,
Every sound, crash, clang that's made
It rattles through me

And suddenly I have to face reality,
Reminding myself of who I am
I'm no longer seven or twelve,
I'm an adult in a safe house

The water covers me as I realize I sat down
Sometimes it's easier to find comfort on the ground
I get up and am covered in bubbles
It's nice to zone out and forget my troubles
The water holds me
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