ARTHUR RIMBAUD – THE SLEEPER IN THE VALLEY

Rimbaud in Harar – Arthur Rimbaud – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia// // //

Arthur Rimbaud was born in the Arnennes in France in 1854.He influenced modern literature and arts, inspired various musicians, and prefigured surrealism/ He started writing poems at a very young age, while still in primary school, and stopped completely before he turned 21. He was mostly creative in his teens (17–20). His “genius, its flowering, explosion and sudden extinction, still astonishes”.Rimbaud was known to have been a Libertine and for being a restless soul. He traveled extensively on three continents before his death from cancer just after his thirty-seventh birthday.

“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

THE SLEEPER IN THE VALLEY

It is a green hollow where a stream gurgles,
Crazily catching silver rags of itself on the grasses;
Where the sun shines from the proud mountain:
It is a little valley bubbling over with light.A young soldier, open-mouthed, bare-headed,
With the nape of his neck bathed in cool blue cresses,
Sleeps; he is stretched out on the grass, under the sky,
Pale on his green bed where the light falls like rain.

His feet in the yellow flags, he lies sleeping. Smiling as
A sick child might smile, he is having a nap:
Cradle him warmly, Nature: he is cold.

No odour makes his nostrils quiver;
He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast
At peace. There are two red holes in his right side.

Arthur Rimbaud

October 1870

LOS ANGELES

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LOS ANGELES

From dream factory

To nightmare landscape

Eternally self-renewing

And all but used up,

The hot LA nights

Spiked with a Santa Ana wind,

Capote, Faulkner, Mailer, Fitzgerald, et al

Haunting the many-faceted gin-mills,

Looking for characters

For the books they were soon to write,

Hockney hobbling to

The marijuana  store

To smoke away his many ailments,

Drinking Chai tea with the other lunatics,

Down Venice way

The ancient muscle men on Muscle Beach

Doing press-ups

And pull-ups that demean them,

Hollywood writ large on the hills

And a jaded sign on Santa Monica pier

Saying ‘Route 66 ends here’.

CONTEMPORARY POETS

MAURA DOOLEY

Poet and freelance writer Maura Dooley was born in Truro, England, and grew up in Bristol.

HISTORY

It’s only a week but already you are slipping

Down cold black chute of history. Postcards.

.Phonecalls. It’s like never having seen the Wall,

Except in pieces on the dusty shelves of friends.

Once I queued for hours to see the moon in a box

Inside a museum, so wild it should have been kept

In a zoo at least but there it was, unremarkable,

A pile of dirt some god had shaken down.

I wait for your letters now: a fleet of strange cargo

With news of changing borders, a heart’s small

Journeys. They’re like the relicts of a saint.

Opening the dry white papers is kissing a bone.

THE WALL

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THE WALL
I stopped by our wall again today
Staring
Just staring
I saw an image of you
Fleeting
As you hurried by
It was like somebody
Had stood on my grave
You in all your finery
Mirrored on a blank wall
Blank
Just like your face.

COWBOYS AND INDIANS

 

COWBOYS AND INDIANS
The Wild West has migrated east
The Middle East near and far
Where the horse has been superseded
By the pick-up, the land cruiser and the car
They race across vast deserts firing bullets in the air
If there’s a name on any bullet
Well, no one seems to care
Shooting up the town was once the pastime of the bad guys
Now it is blowing up the houses
And killing little girls and boys.
The bombs rain down on everyone and everything
Where once it was just arrows
Fired by some pesky redskin
Looking down the barrel of a gun
Can be intimidating
When it’s eighteen foot long
There are no six-guns or shotguns any more
But rocket launchers, machine guns
And others of such enormous bore
Playing cowboys and Indians was once a pleasant game
But when your opponent must be beheaded
Then it isn’t quite the same.

DECIBELISATION

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DECIBELISATION

Decibelisation was already old

When Dresden’s china first charred the ashes;

When the war to end all wars

Turned Flanders’s field to poppies,

And when Cromwell’s convoys rattled

The cobbled streets of old Kilkenny.

And still the echos throb today.

LEAKING CIVIL SERVANTS

CIVIL SERVANTS SHOULD NOT LEAK

He said it, my God he said it!

Brazen-faced, to the watching nation

‘They should not leak’, he said

‘After all, they are servants of the Crown’.

Leaking in public?  How revolting!

And where would it begin?

A seepage from the ears perhaps?

Or a welling-up from beneath

All those virginal starched collars?

Or would it occur in the nether regions?

Visible only as a steady trickle

Down around the ankles.

A telephoned enquiry brought no joy;

‘I can assure you, Sir, we have

No leaking Civil Servants here

Why don’t you try MI 5’

A DIFFERENT RACE

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A DIFFERENT RACE

The lighted first-floor windows illuminate them

Their good sides always facing outwards

Like so many beautiful birds they perch;

Silently caged,

Mouthing ‘For Sale’ pleasantries

Outside

Others less beautiful ply the darkness

Stalked by vermin

And the ghosts of their childhood

There is a rage

Unfurling flags of despair;

‘Look at what you have done’

Some are shouting

‘Don’t you care?’

These articulate ones are the ugliest

The least loved

And the loneliest

SINGER WITH THE BAND

SINGER WITH THE BAND

I grew up and Ambrose grew older

We were together when he died

I was left alone to cry

I don’t know who I am

Please let me speak to Lord Delfont

I have been swindled

A fortune has slipped through my fingers

‘Lord Delfont is on the other line

Can he call you back?’

Mr Eric Morley please;

‘Eric, I have been evicted from my flat

I have nowhere to go’.

‘But Kathy, my dear,

You must have thousands stashed away’.

Now they have sent me to St Lukes Mental Hospital;

‘Kathy Kirby’s here – in a mink coat,

I mean, has she come to entertain us?’

What’s the matter with your hair, Kathy?’

‘It’s mummy, she’s been pulling it out again’.

‘When I wear dark glasses, don’t you think I look like Norma?’

‘Norma?’

‘Norma Desmond, you know, Sunset Boulevard’.

Someone has stolen my legs

I cannot possibly go on stage

I am not the real Kathy Kirby

All the girls in the street have Kathy Kirby legs now.

I am being held prisoner in my flat

I am being possessed by Ambrose

The Queen Mother is in me.

“Well, tell her to piss off!”

http://www.kathykirby.info/index.php?id=4

SHOULD OLD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT

OLD ACQUAINTANCE

I see they have sent him down – again

A two stretch this time

I sold a typewriter for him once

And got six months for my trouble

(he got three, but swore it was my idea)

Then there was the time he

Asked me to burn his house down

‘Two hundred quid’ he said ‘easy money’

‘The insurance won’t twig it’

(when I declined, he did the job himself)

After that we lost contact for several years

He removed his wife and daughters to another town,

Where he was just as big a bastard – to them –

And to the world in general

Drinking, gambling, big-mouthing and beating,

Mostly his wife,

Till she put a slit near his throat

With a carving knife

Left to his own devices

He hung misery about him like a shroud;

He went to Knock for a week

And returned a changed man

Flowers from Interflora, presents for the girls,

Flannel for everyone else.

She relented of course.

They don’t speak much about him in the town now

A nudge and a wink

When his wife appears;

‘She must have known what was going on…

Doing that with his girls….

And she had him back!’