Nourishment.

True alchemy lies in this formula: Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse.

Arthur Rimbaud

Happy Birthday, Arthur Rimbaud

Fantin-Latour, By the Table (detail), 1872

The first study for the man who wants to be a poet is knowledge of himself, complete: he searches for his soul, he inspects it, he puts it to the test, he learns it. As soon as he has learned it, he must cultivate it! I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences. Ineffable torture where he needs all his faith, all his superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed one--and the supreme Scholar! For he reaches the unknown!

The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire.

He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found…of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought.

A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed--and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen

Arthur Rimbaud, born on this day 1854

Seer.

I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet makes himself a seer by a long, prodigious, and rational disordering of all the senses. Every form of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he consumes all the poisons in him, and keeps only their quintessences. This is an unspeakable torture during which he needs all his faith and superhuman strength, and during which he becomes the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed—and the great learned one!—among men.—For he arrives at the unknown! Because he has cultivated his own soul—which was rich to begin with – more than any other man! He reaches the unknown; and even if, crazed, he ends up by losing the understanding of his visions, at least he has seen them! Let him die charging through those unutterable, unnameable things: other horrible workers will come; they will begin from the horizons where he has succumbed!

Arthur Rimbaud

Thief.

Modigliani, Self-portrait, 1919

The first study for the man who wants to be a poet is knowledge of himself, complete: he searches for his soul, he inspects it, he puts it to the test, he learns it. As soon as he has learned it, he must cultivate it! I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences. Ineffable torture where he needs all his faith, all his superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed one--and the supreme Scholar! For he reaches the unknown! ... so the poet is actually a thief of Fire!  He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found … of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought.

Arthur Rimbaud

Happy Birthday, Rimbaud

If the brass wakes the trumpet, it’s not its fault. 

That’s obvious to me: 

I witness the unfolding of my own thought: 

I watch it, I hear it: 

I make a stroke with the bow: the symphony begins in the depths, or springs with a bound onto the stage.

Arthur Rimbaud, born on this day in 1854

Dance.

I stretched out ropes from spire to spire; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.

Arthur Rimbaud, from "Phrases"

Dance.

An overcast morning in July. A taste of ashes flies through the air; - an odor of sweating wood on the hearth, - dew-ret flowers, - devastation along the promenades, - the mist of the canals over the fields - why not incense and toys already?

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.

The upland pond smokes continuously. What witch will rise against the white west sky? What violet frondescence fall?

While public funds evaporate in feasts of fraternity, a bell of rosy fire rings in the clouds.

Reviving a pleasant taste of India ink, a black powder rains on my vigil. I lower the jets of the chandelier, I throw myself on my bed, and turning my face towards the darkness, I see you, my daughters! my queens!

Arthur Rimbaud, from "Phrases"

Buzzing.

Idle youth

Enslaved to everything,

By being too sensitive

I have wasted my life.

Ah! Let the time come

When hearts are enamoured.

I said to myself: let be,

And let no one see you:

Do without the promise

Of higher joys.

Let nothing delay you,

Majestic retirement.

I have endured so long

That I have forgotten everything;

Fear and suffering

Have flown to the skies.

And morbid thirst

Darkens my veins.

Thus the meadow

Given over to oblivion,

Grown up, and flowering

With frankincense and tares

To the wild buzzing

Of a hundred filthy flies.

Oh! the thousand bereavements

Of the poor soul

Which possesses only the image

Of Our Lady!

Can one pray

To the Virgin Mary?

Idle youth

Enslaved by everything,

By being too sensitive

I have wasted my life.

Ah! Let the time come

When hearts are enamoured!

Arthur Rimbaud

Happy Birthday, Rimbaud

Forain, Arthur Rimbaud, 1872

I say one must be a seer, make oneself a seer.

The Poet makes himself a seer by a long, gigantic and rational derangement of all the senses. All forms of love, suffering, and madness. He searches himself. He exhausts all poisons in himself and keeps only their quintessences. Unspeakable torture where he needs all his faith, all his super-human strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the one accursed–and the supreme Scholar!–Because he reaches the unknown! Since he cultivated his soul, rich already, more than any man! He reaches the unknown, and when, bewildered, he ends by losing the intelligence of his visions, he has seen them. Let him die as he leaps through unheard of and unnamable things: other horrible workers will come; they will begin from the horizons where the other collapsed!

Arthur Rimbaud, born on this day in 1854, from a letter to Paul Demeny, 15 May 1871

Seer.

I say one must be a seer, make oneself a seer.

The Poet makes himself a seer by a long, gigantic and rational derangement of all the senses. All forms of love, suffering, and madness. He searches himself. He exhausts all poisons in himself and keeps only their quintessences. Unspeakable torture where he needs all his faith, all his super-human strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the one accursed–and the supreme Scholar!–Because he reaches the unknown! Since he cultivated his soul, rich already, more than any man! He reaches the unknown, and when, bewildered, he ends by losing the intelligence of his visions, he has seen them. Let him die as he leaps through unheard of and unnamable things: other horrible workers will come; they will begin from the horizons where the other collapsed!

Arthur Rimbaud, from a letter to Paul Demeny, 15 May 1871

Buzzing.

SONG of the HIGHEST TOWER

Idle youth

Enslaved to everything,

By being too sensitive

I have wasted my life.

Ah! Let the time come

When hearts are enamoured.

I said to myself: let be,

And let no one see you:

Do without the promise

Of higher joys.

Let nothing delay you,

Majestic retirement.

I have endured so long

That I have forgotten everything;

Fear and suffering

Have flown to the skies.

And morbid thirst

Darkens my veins.

Thus the meadow

Given over to oblivion,

Grown up, and flowering

With frankincense and tares

To the wild buzzing

Of a hundred filthy flies.

Oh! the thousand bereavements

Of the poor soul

Which possesses only the image

Of Our Lady!

Can one pray

To the Virgin Mary?

Idle youth

Enslaved by everything,

By being too sensitive

I have wasted my life.

Ah! Let the time come

When hearts are enamoured!

Arthur Rimbaud

Bound.

If the brass wakes the trumpet, it’s not its fault. That’s obvious to me: I witness the unfolding of my own thought: I watch it, I hear it: I make a stroke with the bow: the symphony begins in the depths, or springs with a bound onto the stage.

Arthur Rimbaud

Poet.

Modigliani, Self-portrait, 1919

The first study for the man who wants to be a poet is knowledge of himself, complete: he searches for his soul, he inspects it, he puts it to the test, he learns it. As soon as he has learned it, he must cultivate it! I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences. Ineffable torture where he needs all his faith, all his superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed one--and the supreme Scholar! For he reaches the unknown! ... so the poet is actually a thief of Fire!  He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found … of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought.

Arthur Rimbaud

Under.

... [I]n the hollow of the hills under Highgate.

Turned.

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

Arthur Rimbaud

Since.

AFTER the FLOOD

    Just as the idea of the Flood went subsiding,

    A hare stopped in the swaying clover and flower bells, and said its prayer to the rainbow, through the spider’s web.

    Oh! The precious stones that hid themselves, —the flowers that already were watching.

    In the dirty main street, the stalls rose, and some hauled the boats to the sea piled up as on engravings,

    Blood flowed, at Blue Beard’s, —in the slaughterhouses, in circuses, and where the seal of God white-washed the windows. Blood and milk flowed.

    The beavers built. “Mazagrans” smoked in the coffee bars.

    In the big house of glass still dripping, the mourning children looked on the wondrous pictures.

    A door slammed; and, on the square of the hamlet, the child waved his arms, understood by the wind vanes and the cocks on steeples everywhere, in the bursting shower.

    Madame *** set up a piano in the Alps. Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral.

    The caravans took off. And Hotel Splendor was built in the chaos of ices and polar night.

    And from then on, the moon heard jackals howling through the deserts of thyme, —and the sabot-clad eclogues growling in the orchard. And, in the violet woods, Eucharis told me it was Spring.

    Gush, pond; —Foam, roll on the bridge and over the woods; —black palls and organs, lightning and thunder, rise and roll; —waters and sorrows, rise and unleash the Floods.

    For since they’ve gone, —oh, the burrowing stones, and the blooming flowers!—the boredom! And the Queen, the Witch who lights her blaze in the earthen pot, won’t ever want to tell us what she knows, that which we do not.

Arthur Rimbaud

Co-Pilot.

Joe is my co-pilot.

Dance.

Reaches.

Pignon-Ernest, Rimbaud, 1986

The first study for the man who wants to be a poet is knowledge of himself, complete: he searches for his soul, he inspects it, he puts it to the test, he learns it. As soon as he has learned it, he must cultivate it! I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love, suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences. Ineffable torture where he needs all his faith, all his superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed one–and the supreme Scholar! For he reaches the unknown!  The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire.  He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought.

Arthur Rimbaud

Attains.

Tiepolo, Triumph of the Arts and Sciences (detail), 1731

A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed--and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!

Arthur Rimbaud