flowers

by arthur rimbaud

from a golden step,— among silk cords, 

green velvets, gray gauzes, 

and crystal disks that 

turn black as bronze in the sun, 

i see the digitalis opening 

on a carpet of silver filigree, 

of eyes and hair. yellow gold-pieces 

strewn over agate, mahogany columns supporting 

emerald domes, bouquets of white satin 

and delicate sprays of rubies, 

surround the water-rose. 

like a god with huge blue eyes and limbs of snow, 

the sea and sky lure to the marble terraces 

the throng of roses, young and strong.

dream of rimbaud

by patti smith

i am a widow, could be charleville could be anywhere,

move behind the plow, the fields, young arthur lurks

about the farmhouse (roche?) the pump the artesian

well, throws green glass alias crystal broken,

gets me in the eye.

i am upstairs, in the bedroom bandaging my wound, he

enters, leans against the four-poster, his ruddy cheeks,

contemptuous air big hands. i find him sexy as hell,

how did this happen he asks casually, too casually.

i lift the bandage, reveal my eye a bloodied mess;

a dream of Poe. he gasps.

i deliver it hard and fast, someone did it. you did it.

he falls prostrate, he weeps he clasps my knees. i grab

his hair, it all but burns my fingers, thick fox fire,

soft yellow hair, yet that unmistakable red tinge,

rubedo. red dazzle, hair of the one.

oh jesus i desire him. filthy son of a bitch, he licks

my hand. i sober, leave quickly your mother waits, he

rises, he’s leaving, but not without the glance, from

those cold blue eyes, that shatters, he who hesitates

is mine, we’re on the bed. i have a knife to his smooth

throat. i let it drop, we embrace. i devour his scalp,

lice fat as baby thumbs, lice the skulls caviar.

oh arthur arthur. we are in abyssinia aden, making love

smoking cigarettes, we kiss, but its much more, azure,

blue pool, oil slick lake, sensations telescope, animate,

crystalline gulf, balls of colored glass exploding,

seam of berber tent splitting, openings, open as a cave,

open wider, total surrender.

first evening (première soirée)

by arthur rimbaud

she was barely dressed though,

and the great indiscreet trees

touched the glass with their leaves,

in malice, quite close, quite close.

sitting in my deep chair,

half-naked, hands clasped together,

on the floor, little feet, so fine,

so fine, shivered with pleasure.

i watched, the beeswax colour

of a truant ray of sun-glow

flit about her smile, and over

her breast – a fly on the rose.

i kissed her delicate ankle.

she gave an abrupt sweet giggle,

chiming in clear trills,

a pretty laugh of crystal.

her little feet under her slip

sped away: ‘will you desist!’

allowing that first bold act,

her laugh pretended to punish!

trembling under my lips,

poor things, i gently kissed her lids.

she threw her vapid head back.

‘oh! that’s worse, that is!'

‘sir, i’ve two words to say to you...’

i planted the rest on her breast

in a kiss that made her laugh

with a laugh of readiness….

she was barely dressed though,

and the great indiscreet trees

touched the glass with their leaves

in malice, quite close, quite close.

"the only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable."