#rimbaud
Emerging from the darkness
Where treasures of poetic genius are dug,
Devouring indifference whose
Inferno fire is hellishly young.
Where hymns of oblivion are sung,
Morose temperaments cling—
Demon whining on each wing.
Where Beelzebub skeletons hung.
Where the death buzz nags
and drags the soul to the valley of pangs.
Emerging from the darkness,
with an offering:
A still Life of dry bones and Tormenting specters in a sarcophagus—
Embalmed in all of us.
Apr 20
Apr 20, 2026 at 3:41 PM UTC
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.
Feb 22, 2025
Feb 22, 2025 at 7:11 AM UTC
Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch
Bang in the first measure
Came the congenital seizure
Skewing the first invention from scratch.
The campfire skied its sparks
Into the ghost-ridden void,
The skittish tchotchkes
Of paradox and entropy
Quirks and tics as dumb as bricks
Until a headstrong mongoloid
Started groping for rhythm
In the quavering spasms.
Oh, but it was a jawdropper
A bang-up tour-de-force
A horrorshow time-warper
Of Luke and Kirk and spice,
The good apple ran the table
Till the old goat hacked the matrix
And the young hawks did their mind-tricks
Of a tessellated cat’s cradle...
And paparazzi made the odyssey
From planets Claire to Z
To dish how cosmic *******
Trysted protomolecule
As the major ghosted ground control...
In all, a very large array
Of bingeworthy groundhog days.
Lukewarm confabulation
Of the smoking embers
From the essential tremor
Ceaseless oscillation
Between good cop and bad copper.
And the girl scouts chorus
With cheeks full of S’mores
“For all of your fables
Of hobbits and hubbles
And sabering at windmills
You will never untie the volition
Riddled into the convulsion,
Nor how the campfire kindles
Nor be one of us.
You will always ***** the pooch
Halfway to the paw-paw patch.”
Nurse Dipso-Etheromaniac
And Dr. Thorazine-Brainiac
Shoved their two-part invention
Cold turkey into the clockworks,
Cleft lip
Fetal eyes
Flipper-fingered
Riddled with the shakes
Cold-shouldered him to another dimension
Where muggles punk ETs,
And their whiskey wizards
Serve up mock elixirs
Not some hair of the dog to undistemper
The secondhand DTs,
His doggo superpower.
Bill Grogan’s goat
(Bam bam bam bam!)
Was feeling frisky
(Bam bam bam BAM!)
Chased three red skirts
Across the galaxy...
“I knew you were one of the ***** boys
But why do your hands shake like that?
They flipper and gibbet all over the keys”
The sour-smelling teacher spat.
And the mean girls echoed
With tongues of acid
“See how they lurch and squirm!
You will never get to the paw-paw patch
You will never find dear little Susie
She will never teach you to hulu
And you will never two-step
With dear old Johnny
With fists of wiggle worms.”
He touched off the fireworks
Torching all your pomp and cirque
In some skullduggery
Of **** and villainy.
I, Dropout
Outcast
Clonetrooper
Mutineer
Hitched a ride north of the watchtower
Where imperial walkers with hooves of ice
Stomped the land flat, and late-blooming
Summer never shakes the phantom menace
Of the winter that is always coming.
Somewhere in the interstellar distances
Of Kantian prairie perturbed by auroras
Like those night-blooming skyflowers
I glimmered back into existence.
I drank with wildings dropped with the dead
And vaped the contrails of the mad rocketeers
(Kid Rambo, Def Louie, Jedi Freddy and Manny
Steampunk Sal and Wig Out Johnny)
But never found sweeter ******
Than the next bridge to burn.
I, callow flamethrower
Of Shiva, the destroyer.
Marshall Gunpowder Jehoshaphat Miller
The bad apple of the force
Hatchet-faced and porkpied
Dead by ****** suicide
Born again old-schooler,
Packing halitosis
From ossified canon
Skywalked me down.
Gospeled me like Luke
And knee-capped me with a curse
Shame; the oldest mind-trick in the book.
I served out my prodigality
In Ludovico therapy
Which for a half-life, somewhat took.
Headlong into retrograde
I crashed the zero-sum arcade
Fed a quarter into the supercollider
And with some crazy tic of the wrist
Spooked the ***** trajectory
So it champagne supernovaed
And spat out the shabby ghost
Of a birthright lottery.
Thirteen golden statues.
But as the digits flipped
And the mission crept
As it does to one and all
Faster than a cannonball
I flashed back to renegade.
And the made girls chorused,
With cheeks full of Botox,
From their partial-view suites
And partner-track perks
Of bottomless cups
Of shut the **** up,
“You nearly made the grade, you!
But then you had to mouth off job-hop Hulk
Out, which finally betrayed you.
Now Security Guard Miller
Will escort you off the premises
For a reckoning with your nemesis
Regret, the silent killer.”
True, for a season I was a bluepilled moon
Marooned with space junk
And cypherpunk
Doomscrollers
Of deadend might-have beens,
Like the lunar sonata’s
Primal whisper of futility,
Until it tripolars
Into ultraviolent agitato
And hits escape velocity
Now loosed from orbit of the Goldilocks planet
I tumble through space in dumbstruck rapture
Of hurricaned stars and thundercloud nebula
I tremble in the thousand-parsec stare
Of the headless horde of dark riders
That stampede the stony hobbits,
Through the looking-glass of lightyears past
I see monstrous galaxies in ungainly copulation
Blushing Hiroshimas of atrocious release
And multi-sunned planets where misbegotten
Beings shudder into self-consciousness,
While I drift toward the event horizon
To be gobbled into the enigma
With a little gasp of gamma
Hammerstricken wires frisson.
Where the eleventh measure of the first invention
Counterclockwise corkscrews
Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch,
After a very long array of groundhog days
My skeleton crew bunch into alignment
Like that hunch of spooky entanglement
Or just possibly like that eternal dissonance
Quelled by a quanta of true arrogance,
In a clockwork grotto
Grows a chrysalis F-sharp
Where fingers at last Goldilock
Into queasy equilibrium,
To my dumb surprise
The dark sac butterflies
And there is Susie
A little tipsy
On hard compatibilism,
With hips of pulsars
And hands of auroras
She hulus like the time warp
Not spasm without rhythm
But otherworldly vibrato.
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 31, 2024 at 4:04 PM UTC
When you know you are late to work
but let time hang loose from your body like an oversized suit regardless,
you are sure to open the floor of the earth and feel like a pervert.
Feet will try to scuttle you with haste across leaf painted pavements toward your occupation but, glancing at the bustle of similar people spread about, you now feel embarrassed.
So you force them to slow down, almost bringing yourself to a stubborn standstill. You can't stop entirely of course. The momentum of the merry-go-round would crush your organs against the stationary facade of your body in an instance, and there'd be no blood left at the back of your brain.
Nov 15, 2022
Nov 15, 2022 at 12:02 PM UTC
once – oh – we were young
glorious an' burdenless
so sweet the youngblood candydness
heroic an' iconic
shouldn't that been written
down on leaves of gold?
tryin to reach the stars
dying in our skies
the purpose orphaned - and of less
than any kind of size
once – oh – I was young
ignoring good advice
called fate to arms & dice
and never and
to-none-the-less
the demons dearly died
the road of burning youngmanhood
so perilous and broad
the pride of lacking country,
ethos or a god.
stupidity! – oh privilege
a bashfool in his prime
i got a glimpse of my turn to good
oh glittering prize
oh heavenly burden of light.
Apr 8, 2022
Apr 8, 2022 at 3:23 AM UTC
An orphaned sky
so painful blue
shone on wasteland beautiful
travel save, ye lonely bird
and take care of your thought and word
a single beat, a single song
abandoned lands, a moan so long
hurting kind, oh bless my soul
melancholia will take its toll
contoures blurred
in a view unkind
the difference of
the second sight
a stone uncarved
the tide unfilled
unequation - remain in light
straight ahead
neither left, nor right
straight ahead,
nor left, nor right
things unsaid,
things undone,
things unsomething,
songs unsung,
the road untravelled,
the weakness strong,
the deeds so many
but
too many turns wrong
oh faithful breath ye gentle wind
make me see the morning light
straight ahead
not left
not right…
Apr 8, 2022
Apr 8, 2022 at 3:00 AM UTC
Divinity of the Day lets me think I’m in the sky
But that’s alright, like to go about this blind
Exiled darling wandering in the summer blessedly long
Divinity of the Day, my whispered prayer through the dark
God, that enthralled
you read in a raindrop
before it hits the ground
sunset boulevard torch,
is up one of these bends,
waved in night
West Hollywood Rimbaud,
feathers falling into my hair,
dressed in invention’s favorite mood
with my roadhouse sheet music
written of my life’s inspiration adorned walls, slightly cold
I was lost but playing it off, until
my racing heart reached time future and
said, soul adored believe what’s in store
dose to help you forget and live
Harp in hand, each step how it rings
scammed and scorched
no lying that all this running leads to
hardly breathing
There’s smoke around you
drifting into an image faithful to the vast,
wild west
bravely standing despite the emptiness
as if guided, divinely guided
with my diamond focus on the garden path
of the muse, open, aware
just walking through, even confused, you mean
my images of paradise were drawn in too
permanent as the myths, placards of legends
Beaming with a strange and frightening beauty
from chasing the lights that ascent into the heavens
dreamy, daring, absurdly hoping, all the read claiming
Lord knows, enamored with you, so take these pretty copper arrows
good for aiming up beyond, that remind me, been on my own so long
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
[Untukmu di Langkawi, 26 Jun 2018]
Beratus-ratus retakan kaca
tidakkan pernah imbang neraca
betapa berat hatiku menunggu
detik-detik tak berpenghujung
beribu-ribu detakan hati
takkan pernah akan ku lari
biar Bukowski dengan kebuntuan
biar Rimbaud dengan ketidaktentuan
akan hanya ada dirimu dalam
laci yang penuh dengan kepastian.
Berbatu-batu kau ke utara
begitulah rasa ini terawang-awang di udara.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 7:21 AM UTC
Divinity of the day, how true and overwhelming
But that’s alright, you’ve given me sight
God, that enthralled
Lush, sunset boulevard torch
A west Hollywood Rimbaud
Scammed and scorched,
running, but still breathing
New age wild west muse
Like midnight’s request for sweetness as music and dreams
A rageling songstress on the longest roadway, sacrificing my best
If I give you all my songs will you feel alright, lush
Take me for all that I am? That much, run with the immense
Learning everything, even how to bless
With my roadhouse sheetmusic
illustrating my life’s inspiration adorned walls, sad ending
I was lost but playing it off, until my racing heart reached
Time future and said, soul, believe what’s in store,
Outrageous dose
Beaming with strange and frightening beauty
From chasing the lights that ascent into the heavens
Dreamy, daring, absurdly hoping, all the real claiming
Lord knows, I’m enamored with the purely copper arrows
Aimed at heights, long and lonely paths for the
Songs of death, of life, wilderness and good times
With my diamond focus
On the garden path of the wise, open, aware
Just walking thru, even confused, you mean
My images of paradise were drawn in diamond too?
Permanent as the myths, legends, poetry?
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC
Leaving rambles like Rimbaud
In a bed where you felt someone
You shouldn't have knelt
With your bony knees on that bony floor
Prayers never answered anymore.
Kisses with saliva you did salvia
On your sister's bed
Awoke to Ok Computer
Above your head, the Archangel
Lay naked bathing in the light
Of your delusions, your mind twitching
In a state of confusion.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
If my memory serves, Satan dear
I once went to Hell for a year
Attempted in vain
To find love with Verlaine
And now that’s all done, I’m a seer!
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
For Rembrandt, love of my life.
Rimbaud,
were you next door
with Verlaine
or in a bar
or in a church
when the tables
were turned by
an invisible hand
against us
my heart was snatched
from our star
& stuffed down
a chimney stack
full of eyes &
knock knocking
on a door & a cry
as a pistol shot
rang out in sepia
do you believe
in women made of paper
folded into dancers
for suit-clad spiders
by doses of poison
if so hold this song
between your fingers
say a prayer
or just curse science
or the shadows
of a trashed childhood
any in memoriam
will do right now
when I still love you.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
Here are berries, leaves, twigs and blossoms fair,
And here, my heart that for you alone beats.
Clasp it in your pale hands and please do not tear,
But see it as a gift, to your pretty eyes sweet.
I come to you covered with dew and sap,
Which the morning’s wind freezes on my forehead.
Bear me, in my fatigue, to lie in your lap,
Dreaming of pleasures to restore me from the dead
On your young ***** let my head rest,
My body still sated with your last kiss;
Let my mind dwindle after such a tempest
And I’ll sleep a little beside you in bliss.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC
First Evening (Première Soirée)
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 **** 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.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
Tepid summer nights and
holes in the soles of your feet.
Holes in your wrists, no?
Soft fluttering of dusted eyelashes and
the pale pink of morning sun as you turn your cheek.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, no?
***** fingertips on dirtied skin and
toothy smiles, moth-eaten pillowcases, stale whispers.
'Pour susurrer des mots doux', non?
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
stupid living boys
and their hummingbird hearts.
stupid dead boys
and their lingering stares.
supermarket polaroids,
cold apartment poetry,
faded glassy eyes,
***** fingernails.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
O! sweet Angel;
cherub; seraph; beautiful nymph,
cradle the night in
delicate French hands,
bend it to match your invisible
words, your intangible sentences.
You have the most beautiful face
in Europe, did you know that?
The eyes, vacant and holy;
the mouth, tender and rose-shaped;
the nose, delicate like veneer;
the twilight black and white
plays off the intelligence
in your face
and howls out mad words,
brilliant words, works
of art.
We are a breed
trapped in your silken
and desolate stare,
forever to study you and
scrutinize you, your fiendish ways,
your rambunctious poetries--
your poetries are published
in Heaven, did you know that?
They are made of glass and I am
afraid that my hands may
crush them when
I bring my fingers across
newly-printed pages.
My own poetries are so *******
demonic; Enoch smiles
in the land of the dead and
prepares them for printing.
My own nature is so bland,
so ritualistic, so uninteresting;
I am not a ***
I am not a rebel,
I am not a drug fiend;
I am a student
playing at being an anarchist.
But your lice-infested sheets
are gone and burned.
Your lover's hand,
now decayed beneath the French earth.
The ***** dens of Paris,
the absinthe dens of Paris,
seem to be gone.
You would not enjoy it here
anymore.
I hope I find you in Heaven,
for you have the most angelic
face in Heaven--
the clouds pale next to you,
the cherubs with their trumpets
turn away and weep.
I hope I find you in Heaven,
for we have a lot to teach
one another.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC