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Those killed in the days of ninety-two

“...The French of the seventies, Bonapartists, Republicans, remember your fathers in ninety-two, ninety-three...”

Paul Cassagnac, "Le Pays"

You, who died in the days of the Ninety-second,

You turned pale from the caresses and embraces of freedom;

The weight of your clogs broke the shackles,

What the people wore on their souls and bodies;

You are an irrepressible tribe of the era of winds,

The light of your beloved stars burns in your heart,

O Soldiers, Death is like a vigorous seed to you,

She sowed generously in the dust along the dry furrows.

The boulders on the peaks glisten with your blood,

Who died at Valmy, at Fleur, in the Apennines -

Millions of Christs, a host of dying eyes,

We'll leave you lying there, sleeping with the Republic.

having merged,

We are accustomed to living before the throne

bowing down.

The Cassagnacs are telling us about you again.

Translation by B. Bulaev

On music

Station Square in Charleville

In a stunted little park (oh, how it’s all

Sleek, as if taken from a well-behaved book!)

The bourgeoisie are loose, suffering from shortness of breath,

On Thursdays they skip their arrogance.

Shrill flutes sway their shakos to the beat

Orchestra; a womanizer revolves around him

And the dandy, approaching first this and that lady;

The notary does not take his eyes off his keychains.

The rentiers are gloatingly waiting for the musician to fake it;

Official aces drag along bulky wives,

And next to him, like the leader who led them into the park,

And the offspring marches, dressed in flounces.

Former grocery merchants on the benches

There is a serious debate about diplomacy

And they turn everything into gold, regretting it,

That the authorities have not yet heeded their advice.

Ass-assed bourgeois, smug-bellied

(Sit down with a Flemish belly -

not a trifle!),

Sucks on his chibouk: banderless

Fibers of tobacco crawl down from the pipe.

Having climbed into the ant, the hollyhock cackles.

Inhaling the scent of roses, the love drink

In the trombone howl the soldier drinks with delight

And fussing with children to appease their nannies.

Like a seasoned student, sloppily dressed,

I'm following the girls in the shade of languid chestnuts

I'm watching. Everything is clear to them. Laughing, they respond

They send me a furtive glance at where the darkness of immodest things is.

But I remain silent and just stare

On the neck are white, on the curly strands,

And under the corsages the gaze guesses

Everything that is hidden in a girl's outfit.

I look at the shoes and above: a wonderful dream!

I am burning in the flames of wonderful fevers.

The little girls are whispering, deciding that I'm funny,

But the kiss born on the lips is sweet...

Translation by B. Livshits

Venus Anadyomene

From a tin bath, like dust from a house,

Thick lipstick is salted through,

The brunette's head rose dramatically,

Covered in small tangles of thinning hair.

The shoulder blades rose behind the fat withers,

Rugged sacrum, lumpy back,

What a ham, thigh; from a saggy belly,

As if a candle has melted, the folds of fat are sliding off.

Along the depression of the ridge, lichens grow red.

And to put this nightmare into your words,

To understand and discern - the eye is not enough;

The beautifully creepy butt was spread apart;

Between the embedded letters – “Brightest Venus” -

The original crater is burning with an ulcer.

Translation by A. Krotkov

First evening

She was almost naked.

The trees, awakening from sleep,

We looked with a roguish expression

In the window opening, in the window opening.

There was an outline of the body in the dim light

So pristinely white-skinned.

Graceful feet on the parquet

I saw the shaking, I saw the shaking.

And I, turning pale with jealousy,

I looked and couldn’t help but look,

Like a ray flitting across a tender neck,

Breasts are a cheeky moth!

I kissed her ankles

And he was rewarded with laughter;

There were flashes of passionate lightning in it,

And the sound of crystal flowed...

Here, hiding my legs under my shirt,

"Enough!" - she screamed,

But a blush covered my cheek.

I understood: insolence is forgiven.

Black eyelashes fluttered,

My kiss touched my eyes;

She leaned back in her chair:

“It’s better this way, but now

Listen..." whispered the echo,

And I was silent, kissing the chest,

And the reward was a fit of laughter,

Didn't mind me at all...

She was almost naked.

The trees, awakening from sleep,

We looked with a roguish expression

In the window opening, in the window opening.

Translation by J. Lukács

Nina's answer

HE: – Why are we delaying – chest to chest?

are we with you?

A? It's time for us

There, where in the meadow floodplains

The winds glide

Where is the blue wine of dawn

Will wash us;

There the grove is overthrown by summer

In silent ecstasy;

Drops splash from dewy branches,

Clean, easy,

And the flesh trembles excitedly

From the breeze;

Throw off your dress into the honeycomb with alacrity

And in the hour of love

Your own black, with a blue outline,

Reveal the pupil.

And you will relax, getting drunk, -

Oh, flow, flow,

Sparkling like champagne -

Your laugh;

Oh, laugh, know that your friend will become

Suddenly rude

Like this! - My mind will be clouded

Drunk from the lips

Raspberry and strawberry flavor -

Oh calm down

Oh, mock my wild kiss

And a thief -

After all, caresses are overgrown with thorns

So hot -

Over the rage of my love

Laugh!..

Seventeen years! Good share!

Clean eyes,

The greenery of the field breathes with love.

Let's go! Together!

Why are we delaying - are we chest to chest?

Under conversation

Through tracts and floodplains

We will enter the forest

And you will inevitably get tired,

Wandering in the forest

And in your arms so tenderly

I'll carry...

I'll walk so slowly, so sedately,

Pure in soul

Listening to the bird's andantino:

"Hazel leaf..."

I would wander, alien to harsh sounds,

Dense in the shade.

Having lulled you comfortably,

Drunk with that blood

What beats through your veins,

Afraid to whisper

In a shamelessly ardent language:

Yes, yes... A little bit...

And the sun will perhaps send down

Your rays

Golden - for green-scarlet

Forest brocade.

We need to get there in the evening

To the highway,

What drags on for a long time like a herd

The herd driver.

Trees in clusters of scarlet spots,

The trunks are in tar,

And the smell of apples is sweetly distinct

Many leagues away.

We'll come to the village at the first stars

We're going straight

And the air will smell like bread

And milk;

And the smell of the stable will be heard,

Cow steps,

Wandering at night to warm up

Under low roof;

And there, inside, the herd will merge

One in the array,

And they will proudly lay down the beef

Damn it...

Glasses, old lady's prayer book

Close to the face;

Foamed mugs to the brim

And a jug of beer;

They smoke there, waiting for food,

Accumulating saliva

Inflating heavy ruins

For ham

And they catch the addition with forks:

They give - take!

The fire casts a glare on the bench

And on lari

For a dirty child,

What's upside down?

Sniffles, licks the cup

In front of the fireplace,

And we illuminate with the same glare

Muzzled dog,

What licks with a delicate growl

Baby in the nose...

And in the chair it’s gloomy and arrogant

The hag is sitting

And something always knits

We'll find it, wandering through the shacks,

And the table and the shelter,

Let's see life in bright light

Burning wood!

And there, when the shadows thicken,

Taking a nap is not a sin -

Among the raging lilacs,

Under someone's laughter...

Oh, you'll come, I'm all on guard!

Oh this moment

Beautiful, incomparable, and even...

SHE: – And the document?

Translation by E. Vitkovsky

Stunned

Where the night snow flickers scarlet,

Crouching to the vent of the basement,

Rears in a circle -

Five kids - poor things! - greedily

They watch how the baker molds the folds

From dough com.

They can see like a skillful hand

He puts delicious bread in the oven,

Cover with yolk.

They can hear: the dough is ripening,

And the fat baker hums

A simple motive.

They all shrank into silence...

Big vent breathing

Warm like a chest!

When is it time for the night feast?

Rolls and buns from the oven

They will start to pull

And they'll sing at the bulkheads

Rows of fragrant butter crusts

Following the cricket, -

What a magical moment

The children's souls are in admiration

Under their rags.

In a kneeling position

Christs in the night frost

At the hole

Faces close to the grille,

Behind her they see a different life,

Full of dreams.

So much that my panties are cracking,

The fools reach out with prayer

To open paradise

Which breathes with bright happiness.

And the winter wind shakes them

Shirts edge.

Translation by M. Usova

Novel

1

There are no sensible people at seventeen!

June. Evening hour. There are lemonades in glasses.

Noisy cafes. Screamingly bright light.

You head under the linden trees of the esplanade.

They are now in bloom and smell sultry.

You want to doze blissfully and lazily.

The cool breeze carries the aroma

And grapevines and Munich beer.

2

You notice through the branch above you

A scrap of blue rag with clumsily

Pinned to it by a tiny star,

Trembling, small and completely white.

June! Seventeen years! Stronger than strong wines

Such a night is intoxicating... As if from sleep,

You look around, staggering alone,

And the kiss on the lips trembles like a mouse.

3

In your fortieth novel, your dream takes you away...

Suddenly - in the light of a lantern - interrupting your visions,

A girl, wrapped in gas, passes by

Under the shadow of daddy's scary collar.

And finding myself as confused as you are,

It's funny to run after her for no apparent reason,

Looks at you... And they froze, alas,

All your cavatinas are on your trembling lips.

4

You are in love with her. Until August she

He listens cheerfully to enthusiastic sonnets.

Friends have left you: falling in love is funny to them.

But suddenly... her letter with a mocking answer.

That evening... you are again attracted by the crowd and the light...

You enter a cafe asking for lemonade...

There are no sensible people at seventeen

Among those diligently sanding the esplanade!

Translation by B. Livshits

Evil

Meanwhile, like red harkotina buckshot

The azure firmament plows with a whistle

And, the word of the king is obedient, like a sheep

Regiments are thrown into the fire, platoon after platoon;

Meanwhile, the millstones are monstrous carnage

They rush to grind people's bodies into manure

(Nature, is it possible to look even calmer,

What are you looking at the dead rotting between the roses?) -

There is a god who mocks the splendor of altarpieces

Shrouds and incense censers. He fell asleep

Solemn Hosannas listening to the vague hum,

But it will rise again when one of the pilgrims

Grieving mothers, falling to him in anguish,

He will take out a copper penny tied in a scarf.

Translation by B. Livshits

Fury of the Caesars

A man wanders among the curtains, pale in appearance,

Dressed in black, cigar smoke flows,

In dreams of the Tuileries, he keeps count of grievances,

Sometimes lightning strikes from dull eyes.

Oh, the emperor is full - all twenty years of revelry

To freedom, like to a candle, he repeated: “Let there be darkness!” -

And he blew it out. But no, it’s inflated again -

Freedom shines again! He's quite annoyed.

He is taken into custody. - What he mutters gloomily,

What words are about to fall from the mute lips?

There is no way to find out. The ruler's gaze is empty.

The bespectacled guy, I guess he remembers his godfather...

He looks into the blue of the cigar smoke,

Like in the evening in Saint-Cloud I looked at the clouds.

Translation by E. Vitkovsky

Winter dreams

Our pink carriage is upholstered in heavenly silk -

Come in and call;

It will be good for us: we will be comfortable, really

We are a nest of love.

You will shade your eyes with your nimble little hand -

You can't bear to look

There, where outside the window there is a black pack of wolves

The night grimaces.

Then you will feel: your cheek burns slightly;

That light kiss, like the legs of a spider,

Running along the tender neck;

And, bowing your head, you command me: “Find!”

And let's take our time - the road ahead -

Catching a wandering villain...

Translation by A. Krotkov

Asleep in a hollow

In the gap between the trees shining silver,

The river sings and beats against the grassy bank;

A steep mountain burns in the sun's fire,

The heat of the day swirls in the hollow by the river.

A young soldier is sleeping, with the back of his head falling into the grass,

On an earthen bed - it couldn’t be more comfortable;

The mouth is slightly open, and the hair is curly,

Warm light flows down the pale face.

He's sleeping. He is fast asleep. And sees earthly dreams -

With a weak smile, like sick children;

If only he could warm up - the ground is so cold;

He does not hear the forest aroma in his sleep;

His palm is pressed to his breathless chest -

There are two blood spots on the right side.

Translation by A. Krotkov

In the green cabaret

I staggered for eight days and tore my shoes.

O stones and, having come to Charleroi, settled down

At the Green Cabaret, asking for tartines

With hot ham and butter. I looked

What boring people sat around,

And, legs stretched far behind the table

Green, I waited - when suddenly I was consoled in everything,

When, with her enormous breasts raised up,

Maid-girl (well! won't bother her

Cheeky kiss) brought to me on a platter,

Laughing, tartines forming, teasing the appetite,

Tartine with ham and aromatic onions,

And a foam mug where it sparkles in amber

Autumn was shining with its sunset ray.

Translation by V. Bryusov

spoiled

The tavern has a dark hall, and its smells -

Fruits and grapes - they excite my loins.

I put it on a plate - I don’t know what;

He was now blissful in the huge belly of the chair.

I hear the clock striking and eat with pleasure;

But the door swung open - the boards began to crack,

The maid came in - I don’t know why:

The scarf is askew, the hairstyle is ruined.

Running your little finger along your rosy cheek,

She must have thought about the sin;

The swollen lip was burning with all its strength.

She briefly touched my shoulder,

And, truly, she longed for a kiss, whispering:

“Look, I caught a chill on my cheek...”

Translation by B. Bulaev

Brilliant victory at Saarbrücken,

won to cries of “Long live the Emperor!” – Belgian luxuriously colored engraving, sold in Charleroi, price 35 centimes

The bluish-yellow ruler in the glory of war,

He saddled the horse and now he’s sitting on it;

Nowadays he has every right to see the world as pink.

He is meeker than daddy, more formidable than Jupiter.

The servants stand and rest behind,

Having found the drums and cannons

A moment of peace. Pita, in uniform, on parade,

He was stunned with happiness and looked at the leader.

To the right is Dumanet, holding the butt of his rifle,

Hair cut with a beaver, with all the equipment,

Yells: “Long live!” - this is daring!..

Shining, the shako soared like a black luminary... Nearby

Lubochny Le-Sorub stands with his back to the soldiers

And he’s curious: “By chance, is it the wrong one?..”

Translation by E. Vitkovsky

Buffet

Oak, gloomy and all entwined with carvings,

The voluminous buffet looks like an old man;

It is wide open, and the gloom is balmy

The wine of distant years flows from it.

He managed to fit it in, straining himself,

So many old scraps,

And yellow linen, and grandmother's lace,

And scarves decorated with griffins;

Here are medallions, here are strands of faded hair,

Portraits and flowers whose scents are so sweet

And merged with the smell of dried fruits, -

How much you, buffet, have on your heart!

As you want, rustling the heavy black door,

Tell the stories of the years gone by!

Translation by E. Vitkovsky

My bohemian life

(Fantasy)

Hiding my fists in my torn pockets,

In a most luxurious coat - all the lint has peeled off -

I wandered with Muse under the dome of heaven,

And my thoughts flew to those loved and desired!

Like Little Thumb, I, worried and in a hurry,

Threw the grain of poetry - the seedlings of greater glory;

And, pulling up his pants - frayed and full of holes -

I rested in a handful of Heavenly Bucket.

I heard the rustling of stars in the thick dust of the roadsides;

Drops of dew were driven straight into my forehead

The thick, powerful hops of September wine;

Looking at your broken shoes,

I rattled the lyre - pulled the elastic of the stockings,

And the soul was drunk with rhyming fire!

Translation by A. Krotkov

Crows

Lord, when the plain froze,

When in burnt villages

The swords are tired of spreading fear,

To the dead from the rear

Send your kind

Brilliant crow.

Flying towards disasters -

Here is your amulet against storms!

Fly along dry rivers

And along the paths to the gray calvary,

Along ditches and pits where blood splashes;

Scatter and gather again!

Whirl, flocks of thousands,

Flocking in winter from all over,

Over the darkness of the French dead,

Calling the living to think!

Oh, the messenger is a tyrant of conscience,

O funeral black corvid!

The saints came down from heaven,

Sitting in the gloom of the hai,

Leave the May Nightingales

For those for whom the forests are dense

They bound the grass with fetters -

For those who are forever dead.

Translation by B. Bulaev

Seated in chairs

Dull zenks sit in the gaps of the greenery.

The motionless hand is pinned to the thigh.

Leprous mold, like on a mossy wall,

The head is stained - there is a bump on it.

The ugly bone is broken, as if in epilepsy.

And the chairs have a curved wire frame -

From morning to evening they cradle you creakingly

Bastard flesh, unborn fetus.

The seats of the weirdos are sat out until they shine -

They sparkle so much that you might even call an upholsterer.

And the gray-haired toads shake sharply

An angry snow chill in the unwarming blood.

So serene is the spirit of brown languor,

So the weakness of their bodies is arrogantly deaf -

As if, hiding in a stuffing made of straw,

The summer heat warmed the receptacle of sin for them.

And with crooked fingers even now why not

Can’t play the wake-up call, spinning it with passion?

No, it’s cramped tightly - teeth are driven into my knees,

And the cemetery tune rings in my ears.

Trying to stand up a little is like death for them.

Like evil cats in a daring fight,

They shake their shoulder blades and snort like hell.

But the ardor of the fighters fades - the pants are crawling down.

When they hear a stranger, the crooked legs tremble,

The lively bulls will make you bald.

And their buttons, flying, strike like bullets,

And their wild pupils drill right through you.

The eyes of beaten dogs spit poison;

They drag you to the bottom, squealing triumphantly;

Invisible claws dream of reaching

To the warm slack of the laryngeal cartilage.

Covering your fists under a fringe of greasy

Frayed cuffs, advised by ghouls.

They excite their sense of smell, like the aroma of almonds,

The desire for revenge blows the bubbles.

When harsh sleep closes their eyelids tightly -

Having slipped the whips of his hands under the lusty ass,

The gray-haired undead dreams of intercourse with armchairs,

Let's multiply those on which they sit.

The edges of the beard are disturbing the itchy member,

After sending thick ink spitting to the dragonflies,

Pollen of commas, dotted faces

They rape the one who burdened them.

Translation by A. Krotkov

Faun head

In the foliage, in a box of living greenery,

In the foliage, in the blooming gold, in which

A kiss sleeps - suddenly its appearance

Revealing over a torn pattern

Ornament, the big-eyed faun stands up,

Having bitten off a purple flower from the stem,

Wine stained his white-toothed mouth,

He laughs, shaking the silence of the branches:

A moment - both daring and stubborn,

He rushes away like a squirrel,

And it’s difficult, like bullfinches on the branches,

Fall asleep again with a forest kiss.

Translation by E. Vitkovsky

Customs officers

Those who are honoring: “To hell!”, those who are squealing: “I don’t care!”

Warriors, sailors - scum and particles

Empires are nothing before the Frontier Army,

Ready to rip open and search the azure.

With a knife and a pipe, with the dignity of a fool

And the dog on a leash - as soon as it starts again

The forest is dark, like a bull drooling on the grass -

The customs officer is eager to enjoy his feast!

For nymphs and for people - his law is the same.

Fra Diavolo grabbed Faust in the darkness,

“Stop,” he barks, “the old man!” Well, what do you have in your knapsacks?

And, without batting an eyelid, to any beauty he

There will be an inspection: are all the charms in order?

And under his hand the soul goes to the heels!

Translation by M. Yasnov

Evening prayer

A beautiful cherub with the hands of a barber,

I while away the day with a carved mug;

Beer makes my stomach bloat and fatten,

It became like a sail over a sheet of water.

Like pigeon droppings smoking in a poultry house,

Tormented by burns, dreams swarm within me,

And the heart is sometimes sad, like rowan trees,

Painted in the blood of autumn yellowness.

When, having thoroughly digested all the dreams,

And cheerfully patting myself on the stomach,

I get up from the table, I feel the urge...

Calm, like the creator of cedar and hyssop,

I let the stream go up, skillfully sprinkling

Amber liquid of the heliotrope family.

Translation by B. Livshits

War song of the Parisians

Spring sets an example for us

The one from the green thicket,

Picard and Thiers are flying, buzzing,

So dazzlingly brilliant!

O May, who promises oblivion!

Oh, bare bottoms are so bright!

They are in Meudon, in Asnieres, in Bagniers

They are bringing spring gifts!

To a powerful cannon motif

It becomes a habit for guests to march;

Letting blood flow into lakes,

They are rushing a dashing gig!

Oh, we rejoice - and for good reason!

Just don’t look out of the holes:

A special dawn rises,

Throwing heaps of topazes!

Thiers and Picard!.. Oh, whose pen

They will be sung in a worthy frenzy!

Oil is burning: die, Koro,

Your landscapes are surpassed!

Mighty friend - Great Trick!

And Favre, nestled between the lilies,

His snoring amuses everyone around him,

Crying crocodile tears.

But know this: the rage is great

The capital engulfed in flames!

It's time for a solid kick

Give you lower waist.

And the barbarians from the villages

We wish you well:

Crimson rustle in a quick day

He will begin to break branches above you.

Translation by E. Vitkovsky

My beauties

Greenish like June

Cabbage cut,

The lye oozes like drool,

at you from heaven

Raincoats stain yours,

Like sausage fat;

Freaks, pull up your gaiters -

And dance lively!

The dove and I had a sweet sniff,

Lip intercourse!

We ate soft-boiled eggs with the freak

And cereal soup!

Belyanka recognized the poet

There is melancholy inside me!

Come on, bend down - this is for you

I'll give you a kick;

Lipstick, black bitch,

If you stink, I'll puke!

You made a hole in your guitar

Right through mine.

I slobbered on a red pig,

Like a fornicator

Infectiously dripping into the hollow

Between the breasts!

I hate you ugly girls

Until the veins spasm!

Hide your rattle tits

In corsage captivity!

And feelings are like bowls in a quarrel,

Crumble into pieces;

Come on, on pointe shoes, cats,

And - louder squeal!

All our matings, our matings

I'd be happy to forget!

Straighter back! Higher, bitches

Branded ass!

And I am for you, my cuties,

Did you write poems?

I'd like to break your knuckles

Rip your guts open!

Knit in the corners, spiders,

Knots are snagging!

And the Lord himself in a starless sneeze

He'll wink at you!

The moon will color your faces,

Like bowls;

Freaks, pull up your gaiters -

You are so sweet!

Translation by A. Krotkov

Squats

Half-day hour; feeling a prick in my guts,

The monk stares out the cell window;

Shining like a cauldron polished with sand,

His extinguished gaze is intoxicated by the evil sun;

And a headache, and my stomach is so heavy...

He feels uneasy - the blanket does not warm him;

He crawls away from the bed, his knees are shaking violently;

The old man was a lot greedy during the meal -

Yes, the chamber pot is too small for the heavy goose;

It wouldn't hurt to lift your shirt higher!

Trembling, I barely sat down; feet embedded in stone,

And my toes froze sharply;

There is yellowness on the glass, they have been faded by frost;

He snorts, grimacing from the glare of the sun -

An Easter egg with a lumpy nose.

He stretched out his trembling right hand to the fire;

Drooping lip; warm itching in the groin;

The pants are hot; annoying bird

Disturbs the sick entrails from within;

He wants to smoke, but the pipe doesn’t smoke.

There is ruin all around: miserable old rubbish,

Showing off his rags, he snores on his dirty belly;

Creaky benches in trashy corners

They took refuge like huge frogs in the grass;

The buffet, starving, tears its mouth in half.

And a sickening stench, like a muddy swamp,

The whole cell was flooded, and there was dust in the skull;

The cheek is overgrown with stubble, wet with sweat;

And the bench shakes - not without sin,

And a heavy hiccup hits the Adam’s apple.

And in the evening, when the moon covers the garden -

Drawing a gray shadow on the pink snow,

The ass will sit down, surrounded by fire,

And a curious nose, attracted by Venus,

It will bury itself in the blue of the sky, which knows no bottom.

Translation by A. Krotkov

ARTHUR RIMBAUD

General characteristics of creativity

Arthur Rimbaud (Arhtur Rimbaud, 1854-1891) - a brilliant poet, symbolist, a man of a completely unusual and in his own way tragic fate. Of the 37 years given to him by fate (a somewhat fatal period for poets, if we remember R. Burns, J. G. Byron, A. S. Pushkin, V. V. Mayakovsky), he worked only for a few youthful years. It is no coincidence that V. Hugo called him “Child Shakespeare.” Rimbaud’s small poetic legacy, so unexpected and bright, had a powerful impact on the development of French poetry in the 20th century. His life, full of sudden changes and adventures, appears in a number of moments as blank spots, and therefore is overgrown with legends and myths.

Arthur Rimbaud was born in the town of Charleville, in the family of an officer, a captain, a handsome man, a man prone to extravagant acts, from whom he inherited a nervous instability of character and a passion for travel. His mother, who came from a family of large landowners, was distinguished by her arrogance, which awakened a spirit of rebellion in Rimbaud. Already at school, Rimbaud began to write poetry, mature beyond his years, including in Latin, showed outstanding abilities, and revealed a memory that stunned everyone. He created his early poems under the influence of romanticism, in the spirit of his idol Hugo. In 1870, 16-year-old Rimbaud made his first “escape” to Paris, where he witnessed the Paris Commune, which was already in its death throes. The heroics of the revolutionary struggle did not leave the romantically minded young man indifferent (the poems “The Military Hymn of Paris”, “The Hands of Jeanne-Marie”, etc.). Rimbaud was never a politically engaged poet, but the sight of the bourgeois and bourgeois who so hated him, recovering from the shock, disgusted him (“The Parisian Orgy, or Paris is Populated Again”), as well as the hypocrisy of the “respectable” society (“The Poor in the Temple”) . He shocked the bourgeoisie in poems that were deliberately naturalistic (“Lice Seeker”).

After 1871, when the poet reached the age of 17, a new stage began in his work. His previous poems, strong, bright, but still traditional in form, were replaced by completely new, unexpected ones. He formulated in a letter to Paul Valéry (1871) a completely original theory of “clairvoyance”:

“The first thing a person who wants to become a poet must become familiar with is himself. He explores his inner world, carefully studying it in every detail. Having mastered this knowledge, he must expand its limits in every possible way... I say that one must be a clairvoyant, become a clairvoyant. The poet becomes a clairvoyant as a result of a long and deliberate disorder of all his senses. He tries to experience all the poisons on himself and compiles the quintessence of them for himself. This is an indescribable torment, which can be endured only with the highest tension of all faith and with superhuman effort, a torment that makes him a sufferer among sufferers, a criminal among criminals, an outcast among outcasts, but at the same time a sage among sages.”

The theory of “clairvoyance” was further developed in Rimbaud’s book of essays and reflections “Illumination” (1872-1873). This is one of the most important documents of French symbolism.

Rimbaud considered himself an artist committed to the political methodology that animates the poems of A. Lamartine, V. Hugo and C. Baudelaire. But at the same time he took a new step. He believed that the poet achieves clairvoyance through insomnia, resorting, if necessary, to alcohol and drugs. He sought to express the inexpressible, to penetrate into what he called “the alchemy of words.”

The theory of “clairvoyance” was realized in two famous works by Rimbaud: “The Drunken Ship” and “Vowels”.

His creative rise lasted very short-lived, about two years. He managed to write an amazing cycle of “Last Poems” (“Good thoughts in the morning”, “Eternity”, “April is the reason”, etc.), as well as a short fragment written in prose, called “Time in Hell”. These are memories and reflections about childhood, poetry, life.

Then came a severe crisis. The fate of Rimbaud has no analogues in world poetry. Before reaching his 20th birthday, the brilliant poet stopped creating. The meeting with Verdun and their difficult relationship played a tragic role in his fate. Subsequently, Rimbaud changed professions: he returned to Charleville for a short time, then he showed up in Cyprus, North Africa, worked in commercial firms, and sold weapons.

Biographers can hardly and incompletely trace Rimbaud's life. While his fame grew in France, he hardly remembered that he had ever written poetry. In the spring of 1891, he became seriously ill and returned to his homeland, where his sister Isabel, the only person close to him, looked after him. Rimbaud's leg was amputated. In November 1891, the poet died in Marseille. The obituary announced the death of “the merchant Rimbaud.”

Poems by A. Rimbaud: materials for analysis

1. The poem “The Drunken Ship” (translation by P. G. Antokolsky) is rightfully considered not only Rimbaud’s masterpiece, but also the pearl of world poetry.

It was written by Rimbaud in Charleville. The unknown young poet understood that he had written something completely unusual: “Yes, I know very well that nothing like this has been written,” he told one of his friends. The poet had never seen the sea and relied only on the power of his imagination, fed in part by literary images. This is the poet's largest poetic work.

In modern literary criticism, a poem includes a small or medium-sized epic poetic work, represented by several varieties. (Examples of a lyrical, plotless poem include: “Silence”, “A Knight for an Hour” by N. A. Nekrasov, “Song of the High Road”, “Song of the Ax” by W. Whitman, “The Raven” by E. Poe). Can “The Drunken Ship” by Rimbaud be considered a poem?

2. What artistic effect does Rimbaud achieve by telling the story from the 1st person? How tangible is the “effect of presence” in the poem? How the state and feelings of the lyrical hero are conveyed: “I was left alone without a gang of sailors”; “I breathed the acid and sweetness of cider”; “I remember the glow of deep currents,” etc. Give similar examples.

How do reality, real pictures develop into fantasies, visions of the lyrical hero? Highlight examples of Rimbaud’s visual means in the text: personifications, metaphors, similes, symbols. Is it possible to talk about the internal plot of the work?

3 Explain the meaning of the concepts interspersed in the text: Leviathan, Hansa, Maelstrom. In connection with the latter (the so-called warm current off the coast of Norway), remember the famous short story by E. Poe “Descent into the Maelstrom” (1841), the hero of which, a sailor hidden in a sealed barrel, escaped during a sea storm. What similarities can you think of between the two works?

4. Analyze the presence of two levels in the poem: one - direct, picturesque, the invention of a ship without a rudder or sails in the middle of a stormy sea; the second is allegorical, symbolic. How to understand this allegory, this colorful allegory? Can we assume that this is a prophetic prediction of the sad fate of Rimbaud himself - his loneliness, epiphanies, wanderings around the world, which end with a plea for peace, a safe haven?

At the same time, the drunken ship is a metaphor, a symbol with a broader meaning. Let us remember in this regard that the image of a ship was widely used in world poetry. Thus, the ancient Greek lyricist Theognis (VI century BC) painted a ship caught in a storm on the open sea; the ship is a metaphor for a state torn apart by political strife. In one of Horace’s odes, the state in which there is a struggle for power is likened to a ship caught in a storm. In G. Longfellow’s poem “Building a Ship,” which is associated with the fate of America, a ship in the shipyards is a metaphor for a young state gaining strength before setting out on a long historical voyage. The image of a ship whose captain dies is a metaphor for America, which lost President Lincoln, who was assassinated at the moment when the war between the North and South victoriously ended.

6. Rimbaud’s masterpiece was translated into Russian many times by generations of Russian poets. Try to compare the translations of V.V. Nabokov, B.K. Livshits, L.N. Martynov 1.

7. Sonnet “Vowels” (translation by V. B. Mikushevich) is one of the most famous and at the same time mysterious poems by Rimbaud. How is this sonnet constructed? Determine the rhyme structure.

9. Trace the chain of associations that the colors of the letters evoke in the poet. What associations do you have between letters and colors? Are there any coincidences between your vision and Rimbaud's vision?

10. Some researchers believe that Rimbaud’s sonnet could have been provoked by Charles Baudelaire’s poem “Correspondences,” which is based on the idea of ​​the interconnectedness of all life phenomena. Prove or disprove this statement using texts.

11. Compare the newest translation by V. Mikushevich with the previous one made by A. Kublitskaya-Piotukh 2.

Notes

1 See: Verlaine P., Rimbaud A., Mallarmé S. Decree. op. — P. 313 — 374

2. See: Verlaine P., Rimbaud A., Mallarmé S. Decree. op. — P. 688

("THESE SPECTRA OF BARROCO...")

The 18th-century French moralist Louis Vauvenargues wrote briefly and clearly in his book “Maxims and Aphorisms”: “Old people are worthless.” It is known that wandering native tribes, in hungry years or before a long, tiring hunt, left old people where they would have to - in gorges, caves, deserts - slowly and surely die from hunger and cold. It is still unknown what is better – starvation in the desert or rotting in a “nursing home”, in terrible hospitals, in the apartments of equally terrible relatives. It is clear that we are talking about poor old people, who are the majority and to whom fate gives illness and bad character as companions. The rich have bad habits - signs of absurd originality, nothing more.

Among the generally humane statements about old age, which sound somewhat dubious or simply hypocritical, the question is best closed by the frank phrase: “He whom the gods love dies young.” At least it's honest.

Baudelaire created the poem “Seven Old Men” in the manner of ugliness or, to put it in a scientific way, in the aesthetics of tourism: old age blooms with the “flowers of evil” against the backdrop of a slightly less ugly city. Gray and yellow stand out in a haze of gray and yellow.

“In the anthill city, a city full of nightmares, where a revenant clings to a passerby on a clear day, secrets bubble up everywhere in the narrow channels of a giant colossus.”

“One morning on a particularly sad street, the fog extended the roofs of the houses upward, forming two embankments of an unknown river, as if in a theatrical set.”

“A dirty and yellow fog filled the entire space. I walked, heroically straining my nerves, and reasoned with my weary soul. The suburb was shaking from the heavy carts.”

One feels hopeless and unbearably gloomy, reminiscent of a typically Baudelairean spleen, the landscape of a huge city, where ghosts are no different from the living; a landscape where poisonous boredom gives birth to beggars, thieves, swindlers, murderers and forces them to practice their craft willingly or unwillingly, so as not to perish in the dirty yellow fog.

“Suddenly an old man appeared. His yellow rags resembled the color of a rainy sky. His appearance drew alms, despite the malice with which his eyes shone.”

"Eyes. The pupils seemed to be drowned in bile. His gaze gave me goosebumps. His beard, with hair as hard as blades, protruded forward, like the beard of Judas.”

“He couldn’t be called stooped or bent, but rather broken in half. His spine formed such a magnificent right angle with his right leg that his stick, completing the figure, gave the overall outline a painfully ugly lameness ... "

“...a crippled four-legged or three-legged Jew, who, tangling in the mud and snow, trampled the dead with his shoes, hating the universe more than indifferent.”

“Exactly similar followed him: beard, eyes, back, stick... nothing

were no different. From the same hell came this hundred-year-old twin. And these spectra of baroque

moving with their eerie steps towards an unknown goal.”

And then a strange story happened, perhaps explained by the phantasmagoria of the fog:

“What kind of crazy conspiracy have I become the target, the victim of what bad accident?

I carefully counted seven times one sinister old man who was multiplying!”

“He who does not tremble from kindred horror, and who does not laugh at my anxiety

will probably think that, despite all their weaknesses, these ugly monsters personify eternity!

This is no longer anxiety. Maybe the combined forces of fog, nervous

the poet's anxieties and something else unknown created a group of monsters from whom no mercy can be expected?

“I would die if I saw the eighth - some ruthless

Soziya, ironic and fatal, some disgusting Phoenix - his own son and father...

But I left the infernal cortege behind me.”

“Shocked, like a drunkard who saw a double,

I ran home and desperately slammed the door. Rabid, with a headache, with a feverish soul, tormented by mystery and absurdity.”

“In vain did the mind whisper its logical arguments, the hurricane playfully scattered and drowned its schemes and structures, and my soul, an old shed, devoid of masts, danced and danced on the waves of the monstrous and boundless sea.”

The poem is extremely radical. One can paraphrase Paul Valéry (life is only a flaw in the crystal of nothingness) in the spirit of Baudelaire: “Beauty is only a wave in a sea of ​​ugliness.” Moreover, if beauty is rare, extremely rare, then ugliness - ugly mushrooms and plants, ugly buildings covered with shapeless, screaming spots, people covered in purulent tumors and corrosive growths - is a fairly common occurrence. Of course, Baudelaire could have depicted seven real disgusting old men, but he limited himself to only one, plunging him into a foggy phantasmagoria. It is difficult to meet such an old man—all old men are old—in life. This extraordinary story about doubles owes its birth only to the author of “Flowers of Evil”; a unique romantic grotesque is possible only in the lines of poetry. It is useless to characterize him. There are colorful images of old people in novels, but none compare to Baudelaire’s “broken at a right angle” monster. All these Harpagons, Gobseks, F.P. Karamazovs, despite their physical and moral deformity, often come across in life: in their habits, habits, inclinations there is a lot of “human, too human”; stinginess due to voluptuousness; lust born of greed; rapturous triumph over a poor but noble debtor, etc. Everyone knows the habits of old people to “benefit the cause”; it is advantageous to use the disadvantages bestowed by age: if a person is deaf, he constantly puts his palm to his ear, pretending that he does not hear anything. It's the same with vision. Everyone knows how old people treat their heirs or dependent people. Nonsense habits, demands for honor and respect with wealth; servility, hypocrisy, flattery, sycophancy in poverty. If someone is young and good-looking, and He old and unprepossessing, this often leads to burning hatred.

But Baudelaire was not interested in the psychology of his “old people” and the general problems of old age. As in many other poems, he sketched an ominous landscape in which man and people play a serious, if not the main role. True, the main character can hardly be called a man; for the poet he is a “monster”. Baudelaire's passion for Baroque artists is known: Callot, Grosse, Lilach and other great draftsmen. Hence the bright originality and caricature of the image. This is neither a person nor a monster, it is an anthropomorphic bio-creation from the fog of the valleys of Circe or Proserpina, ephemeral and eternal at the same time.

In the poem "Seated" by Arthur Rimbaud, the title reflects physical feature of a group of old people. Generally speaking, they are able to tear themselves away from their seats, but for them this is a disaster, “like a shipwreck.” Human-chairs in the literal and figurative sense: “In a fit of epileptic love, they pressed their human skeleton into black wooden skeletons; calves and feet passionately intertwined the rickety chair legs. And they maintain this position from morning to evening.” Commentators believe that Rimbaud saw his old people in the library of his hometown of Charleville. Firstly, it is not in Rimbaud’s style to use “pictures from life”; secondly, upon careful reading, it is clear that such disgusting creatures are not so easy to meet in reality:

“Black from lupus. Pockmarked. The eyes are outlined in green circles. Fingers grabbed his hips. Skulls with ugly spots, like old walls stained with leprosy.”

“These old people are constantly trying to settle into their seats, pleasantly feeling how the bright sun gives their skin the roughness of calico. Or, with their eyes fixed on the windows where the snow is melting, as if hypnotized, they tremble with the painful trembling of toads.”

They are devoted to their chairs, attached to them as if they were the most precious things in life and will never part with them for anything, ever. Naturally, this is an eternal romance, “until death do them part.” True, such a statement is frivolous: they can stipulate in their will that they be buried on chairs. And the seats are kind to them: brown straw yields to the corners of their buttocks. The soul of the old suns still warms the former ears of corn, where grains are fermented: “And those sitting, touching their knees to their teeth, green pianists, drum with ten fingers under the seats. Listening to the sad barcarolles, they shake their heads to the rhythms of love.”

The love of old people for benches, armchairs, and deck chairs is well known and understandable: after a simple or especially hasty walk, such rest probably provides a necessary and incomparable pleasure. Pleasure, yes. But here we are talking about self-forgetfulness, about devoted love, moreover, about voluptuousness, which is strictly necessary for life. It's easier to tear two lovers away from each other than old people from their chairs:

“Don’t even try to force them to get up. It's a shipwreck...They jump up, growling like angry cats; their clothes open, their shoulders come out; their trousers are billowing out at the backside.”

“Shipwreck” is an interesting metaphor that reflects the panic, vanity, and sudden turmoil of people accustomed to the routine of sitting in a cabin for many days. The metaphor in this case is far from the situation, but accurate in characterizing the explosive state of disturbed old people.

“And you listen to how bald heads bang against the gloomy walls, how the crooked legs of chairs annoyingly knock, and the buttons of frock coats, like the pupils of predators, catch your eyes to the end of the corridor.”

“They have an invisible killing hand. When they finally sit down, their gaze is filtered by the black venom that can be felt in the suffering eyes of the beaten dog. And you sweat, as if falling into a cruel funnel.”

Baudelaire's old man bent in half and his infernal retinue of doubles are perhaps less dangerous than the “seated” ones. But we haven't seen Baudelaire's characters in action. Rimbaud's old men are outwardly calm, although when disturbed they are capable of the hidden, convulsive, cruel activity of a snake.

“Sitting on their favorite chairs, hiding their fists in their dirty cuffs, they think about those who made them rise. From morning to evening, a cluster of tonsils under an unkempt, thin chin shakes with indignation.”

Of course, poets are not psychologists; knowing their neighbors is not their business. It is impossible to judge the attitude towards elderly people in the second half of the nineteenth century from the brilliant poems of Baudelaire and Rimbaud. But that this attitude has changed dramatically compared to former times is a fact. Old people have ceased to be teachers and mentors in worldly wisdom - just remember Turgenev’s “Fathers and Sons” or Dostoevsky’s “The Karamazov Brothers”. Rimbaud wrote in “Letter of a Seer”: “The poet must determine the measure of the unknown inherent in his era.” The old people no longer entered into this “unknown.” Their stories about the past attracted few people, like fairy tales and legends. “Modernity”, “the present” was regarded not simply as a period of time that comes and goes, but as an eternal temporal constant, and the old people were the least oriented in it. The usual shortcomings of old age - laziness, idleness, absurd quirks, petty tricks - began to be considered the vices of “healed idiots” who “place in a coffin.”

Although it is very difficult to call the ending of “Sitting” an senile quirk. This ending is striking in its unusualness: “When gloomy sleep closes their eyelids, they, with their heads in their hands, dream of fruitful chairs: from their real affairs, small seats would be born surrounding proud bureaus.” The last stanza is full of strange phantasm: “Ink flowers spit out pollen in the form of commas: it lulls those sitting, as if the flight of dragonflies lulls gladioli. The hard bars tease their flaccid penises.”

The works of Arthur Rimbaud (1854, Charleville - 1891, Marseille)

Arthur Rimbaud is a brilliant teenage poet, a “pagan” and a “barbarian”, not constrained by the traditions of culture and morality, possessing the secrets of world culture even on a subconscious level. He created all his poetry and prose between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, from 1869 to 1873. At the age of 17, he wrote his most famous poems “The Drunken Ship” and “Vowels”, and already at the age of 19 he left poetry and turned to life, wandered around the world, lived in Ethiopia (Abyssinia), resulting in 18 years of silence. Despite such a short period of Rimbaud’s creativity, his poetry develops so rapidly that in 3-4 years he manages to go from a student to an ultra-innovator and influence all subsequent French and world poetry. The forms of poetic art have changed so much that the interpretation of lyric poetry has become as difficult as putting music into words. Louis Aragon wrote that the development of French poetry of the twentieth century “passed under the decisive influence of Arthur Rimbaud.”

Conventionally, researchers distinguish three periods in Rimbaud’s work:

Late 1869 - spring 1871: age from 15 to 16.5 years. Three escapes from home, Paris Commune.

Summer 1871 - spring 1873: age from 16.5 to 18.5 years. Conventionally, the period of “symbolism”; the time of creation of the “theory of clairvoyance”. Texts: “Drunk Ship”, “Vowels”, collection “Illuminations”.

Spring - autumn 1873: age 19 years. Time to overcome the “theory of clairvoyance.” Collection "One Summer in Hell".

Rimbaud destroys traditional poetic forms and rules. Everything in his poetry becomes different: sound, language, the connection of words, meter, rhythm, metaphors and symbols take on a new sound. Rimbaud tried to create a “universal language” that would synthesize all feelings and would be understandable to everyone. One of the methods of destroying the old style is introducing into the text a stylistically alien, sometimes simply incomprehensible word, for example, a scientific term, vulgarism. The cause-and-effect relationship between words in Rimbaud’s texts is often broken and the peculiarity of the sound of the poetic word comes to the fore. Instead of a semantic logical connection in Rimbaud’s poems there is an associative connection, i.e. metaphorical logic (and the poet’s train of thought is often elusive). As a result of this organization, the poem is likened to a piece of music and initially suggests many interpretations. Thanks to musical instrumentation, the power of poetry increased, but at the same time its understanding became significantly more difficult.

Rimbaud spent his childhood in the provincial town of Charleville, in the Ardennes, not far from the border with Belgium. Rimbaud was born into a petty-bourgeois family, where everything was subordinated to prestige and profit. His mother had a tyrannical character. As a child, Rimbaud was withdrawn and irritable. For any offense, his mother severely punished him with house arrest and living on bread and water. Rimbaud made amazing progress in college: he was the first student in all subjects, including classical languages ​​and Latin versification, for which he received numerous awards. Rimbaud begins to compose at about 7-8 years old and writes his first poems in Latin. These were improvisations written for class assignments at a college in Charleville. Already in college, Rimbaud knew modern French poetry well: Mallarmé, Verlaine. His idol is Charles Baudelaire, and it is from him that the aesthetics of the ugly comes. Rimbaud wrote his first poems in French under the influence of the romantics and French Parnassians, but already in his early poems he showed independence and independence. Rimbaud’s attitude towards traditions has always been special: he wanted to become not just free, but “absolutely free” in all areas of literature and life.

Rimbaud sent several of his first poems, still student-like and traditional in imagery (“Premonition”, “Ophelia”, “Sun and Flesh”, “Credo in umam” - “I Believe in One”) to Theodore de Banville in 1870.

...I believe only in you, sea Aphrodite,

Divine Mother! Oh our lives are broken

Since God took us to his cross

I was able to tie it. But I... I only honor Venus...

"Sun and Flesh"

Rimbaud wrote to Banville that he considered every true poet a Parnassian: “A poet is a Parnassian in love with ideal beauty /…/. In two years, in a year, maybe I will be in Paris /…/. I will be a Parnassian. I swear, Dear Teacher, to always adore two goddesses = Muse and Freedom.” However, the fascination with the ideas of the Parnassians was short-lived, and already in the same year, 1870, Rimbaud sneered at the Parnassians and wrote poems of the so-called “accusatory cycle”, far from the ideas of “art for art’s sake.”

The triptych poem “Ophelia” (1870), one of those sent to Banville, already speaks of Rimbaud’s maturity and genius. The text is based on traditional Shakespearean descriptions and depictions of Ophelia in 19th century painting. The poem has the shape of an ellipse - it has two true centers, or poles, and two main characters. In parts 1 and 2 it is Ophelia, in parts 3 it is the poet as a character. Rimbaud, like a child, calls himself “he”, in the 3rd person. Versions: Ophelia's madness - split; Rimbaud's split - the poet and his “alter ego”. In the poem "Ophelia" there are two intersecting levels - pictorial and symbolic, and each of them can be perceived independently.

Subsequently, Rimbaud will create his own poetics - a fundamentally different, chaotic one, where images are replaced by an ugly, amorphous poetic text. In such a text, direct meaning is replaced by fragmentary metaphors that are literally impossible to interpret. If in the first early poems the poet was spontaneous (childishness, naivety, simplicity), then then the text becomes direct - it is not associated with any tradition, and the meanings in it are combined according to their own laws (for example, in “Illuminations”, where the reader can offer your own interpretation of the text, which will be both correct and far from the true intention). Rimbaud said that his poems have both “literal and all possible meanings.”

The main theme is the poet-wanderer, the vagabond, the desire for “free freedom.” In general, Rimbaud’s work (especially the early ones) is diverse in subject matter. These are lyrics, sketches of everyday life, social and even political poems. Rimbaud literally hates the Second Empire of Napoleon III and pins his hopes on the French Revolution. He tries to escape to Paris three times, but learns about the victory of the Commune at home. After 72 days the Commune was defeated. The poems of the spring of 1871 reflect the mood experienced by Rimbaud before and after the defeat of the Commune. The Franco-Prussian War, bourgeois life and religious hypocrisy are a constant subject of ridicule for Rimbaud. In his “accusatory poems,” Rimbaud uses Baudelaire’s “aesthetics of the ugly” and brings it to perfection. In his poems of 1871 (“Sitting”, “Squatting”, “The Poor in the Church”, “My Beloved Little Ones”, etc.) Rimbaud creates hypertrophied and ugly images of provincials, bigots, bureaucratic officials, and church ministers. These are scandalous, hooligan, anti-religious poems with sharply expressive, reduced vocabulary. The images of these poems are deliberately rude, Jesus Christ himself is ridiculed, but the cynicism of these texts is rather literary, playful, and not real (this is the so-called “poetry of another”).

The best creation on the theme of war is the free sonnet “Asleep in the Hollow” (“Sleeping in the Hollow”). The best poem of the spring of 1871 on the theme of revolution is “The Parisian Orgy, or Paris is Populated Again” (May 1871). The text of this poem was restored from memory by Paul Verlaine. The poem “The Hands of Jeanne-Marie” is a hymn to the heroes of the Commune. This poem was found by chance and published only in 1919.

1871 is a turning point in Rimbaud’s work. May 1871 - border: before and after the Paris Commune. After the defeat of the French Revolution, Rimbaud placed all his hopes on the “theory of clairvoyance.”

In the summer of 1871, at the age of 16, Rimbaud developed the “theory of clairvoyance”, with the help of which he hoped to radically change poetry, to become a poet-martyr, prophet, clairvoyant, and in such a role to lead the world, i.e. change it through poetry. Rimbaud retreats from reality into illusion and through illusion and suffering, changed, he returns to reality. In one of the first letters addressed to Rimbaud, Paul Verlaine, who perhaps most subtly understood the nature of Rimbaud's genius, calls him a “lycanthrope,” i.e. a wolf man, a werewolf, capable of changing his appearance at will. In a letter to the poet Paul Demeny dated May 15, 1871, Rimbaud outlines the essence of his theory:

The first thing anyone who wants to become a poet must achieve is complete self-knowledge ; he searches for his soul, examines it, tempts it, comprehends it. And when he has comprehended it, he must process it! /…/ I say, you need to become a clairvoyant, make yourself a clairvoyant. The poet turns into a clairvoyant by a long, immense and deliberate bringing into disorder of all senses . <...>This is unbearable torment, the poet needs all his faith, all the supernatural strength of spirit, but he will become a great patient, a great criminal, a great damned one - and a great Scientist!<...>He will reach the limits of the unknown, and although thirsty, he will even cease to understand the meaning of his visions, he still saw them!

Rimbaud writes about the “theory of clairvoyance” in a letter to his school teacher Georges Izambard:

It's about reaching into the unknown through unbridledness in everything... My "I" is someone else's "I". An unfortunate tree that suddenly discovered that it is a violin!.. I beg you, don’t try to sort everything out, either with a pencil or in your thoughts...

The first result of the “clairvoyance theory” was “The Drunken Ship” - one of the few poems with which Rimbaud himself was pleased. Rimbaud writes this poem in Charleville, he has never seen the sea and relies on his childhood impressions of pictures in magazines and books he read (for example, “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea” by Jules Verne). At the same time, with the power of imagination and intuition, he managed to recreate the image of a real sea (the exact shades of sea water), following his rule of giving the image “real and all possible” meanings. This is a ship left without control in a rough sea and floating at the will of the wind into the World Ocean. And at the same time, the “drunk ship” is an allegory of the poet, a metaphor (“I” = “drunk ship”). The images in this poem have symbolic and therefore infinite depth. Images replace each other at an accelerated pace. Words are connected by free association. Syntactic connections, cause-and-effect logic, space-time coordinates of the world are violated. Familiar traditional images receive a different content: individual, author’s subjective meaning. According to the “theory of clairvoyance,” the poet must become a medium, like a musical instrument played by higher powers. As a result, it is as if the poet does not think himself, but someone else “thinks for him.”

In the summer of 1871, Rimbaud wrote the sonnet “Vowels,” another result of the implementation of the “theory of clairvoyance.” Idea: synthesis of all senses in understanding the world. This sonnet is called the “colored alphabet.” In it, sounds are associated with color based on arbitrary associations. Perhaps the sonnet refers to mystical alchemical texts with which Rimbaud was familiar. But there is a simpler explanation - the memory of the color pictures in the primer. Rimbaud anticipates the idea of ​​a synthesis of arts, which became central to symbolism. Subsequently, Rimbaud was assigned in absentia to the Symbolist school, his “Vowels” became a manifesto of symbolism, and in Paris even a circle of poets arose who wanted to create a literary system based on the sonnet “Vowels”.

In September 1871, Rimbaud wrote a letter to Paul Verlaine, including sending him “The Drunken Ship.” Verlaine is delighted and shocked, he replies: “Come, dear friend, great soul, - you are invited, they are waiting for you.” Rimbaud comes to Paris, lives for some time in Verlaine’s house, then they travel together around Belgium and England, trying to put the “theory of clairvoyance” into practice. Result:

Verlaine - “Songs without words.”

Rimbaud - "Illuminations", written in 1872-1873. in London. This is a collection of short prose poems that Rimbaud called “words in freedom.” This is a project of “new harmony”, a synthesis of words, music and painting, the images are based on hallucinations.

In 1873, after a quarrel with Verlaine, Rimbaud wrote a book of reflections in prose and verse, “One Summer in Hell” (“Through Hell”, “A Season in Hell”), in which he expresses his disappointment in the “theory of clairvoyance”. This book was published in 1873 in Brussels in a circulation of 500 copies at the behest of Rimbaud at his expense. Not a single copy of the book was sold. Rimbaud sent several books to his acquaintances, including Verlaine, who was at that time imprisoned in Monse prison. According to one version, Rimbaud burns all his remaining copies. The fate of the publication remained mysterious until 1901, when almost the entire circulation of A Season in Hell was accidentally discovered in an abandoned building that previously belonged to the publishing house Poot et Cie.

Fame never interested Rimbaud. He hardly cared about the fate of his poems, especially after 1873. Rimbaud did not prepare his poems for publication and did not want to see them published. “One Summer in Hell” is the only book published by the poet himself, besides several other early poems published in magazines and the 1871 poem “Ravens.” All other lifetime editions of the poems were made without the knowledge of Rimbaud by his friends, in particular Paul Verlaine in the book “The Damned Poets” (1884). Many of Rimbaud's autographs were lost, the chronology in the collections is often not respected, some poems were reproduced from memory by Verlaine. According to the existing publishing tradition, Rimbaud’s poems are conventionally divided into two books:

Poems 1869-1871 under the code name "Poems". The poems in this book were collected after Rimbaud's death. A total of 44 poems from the period 1869-1871 have survived.

Poems of 1872 under the code name “Last Poems”. This book includes poems prepared and published without the knowledge of the author in 1886 by Verlaine along with “Illuminations.”

To these two books is added One Summer in Hell (1873) as the only book published by Rimbaud himself.

After One Summer in Hell, Rimbaud did not write a single poem again - he left poetry. An era of endless wanderings begins in his life. In seven years - until 1880 - he managed to learn Spanish, Russian, Italian and German to varying degrees, and also visited Sumatra as a soldier in the Dutch colonial army, worked in a traveling circus in Scandinavia, carried stones in a Cypriot quarry and walked a long distance. part of Europe. Rimbaud was seen in Alexandria and Vienna, Stuttgart and Stockholm. For a long time, Rimbaud lived in Africa, in Harare, where, according to one version, he traded in leather, cotton and weapons. Arthur Rimbaud died on November 10, 1891 at the age of 37 in France at the Hospital of the Immaculate Conception. He was diagnosed with sarcoma of the knee; his leg had to be amputated, but the tumor continued to develop. Entry in the hospital register: “November 10, 1891, at the age of 37, the merchant Rimbaud died.”

Premonition

By remote paths, among thick grass,

I'll go wandering in the blue evenings;

The wind touches your bare head,

And I will feel freshness under my feet.

Endless love will fill my chest.

But I will remain silent and forget all the words.

And as if with a woman, with Nature I will be happy.

On the smooth surface of black waters, where the stars dozed off,

Ophelia floats like a white lily,

Floating slowly in a transparent blanket...

The forest darkness blows the hunting horns.

For centuries now, like a white ghost

Ophelia glides over the black depths,

For centuries now, like a muffled singing

The darkness of the night is filled with her madness.

The wind kisses her chest slowly,

The water lulls, opening like petals,

The clothes are white, and the willows are quietly crying,

Sad, the reeds bend over her.

The water lilies crumpled around her sigh;

Sometimes a nest on an alder tree suddenly wakes up,

And the wings greet her with their trembling...

A mysterious sound pours from the stars onto the earth.

How beautiful Ophelia is like snow! O fairy!

You're dead, child! The stream has carried you away!

Then that sigh of wind blew from the Norwegian mountains,

I whispered to you about tart freedom;

Then that wind blew

Some strange hum in your mind and dreams,

And the heart listened to the night Nature singing

Among the rustling of leaves and sighs of darkness;

Your child's chest, whose moan was too quiet;

Then the gentleman, crazy and beautiful,

He came on an April day and sat at your feet.

Freedom! Takeoff! Love! The dreams were crazy!

And you melted like snow from their fire:

Strange visions have ruined your mind,

The sight of Infinity extinguished the gaze forever.

And the Poet speaks of the stars that twinkled,

When she was picking flowers on the shore,

And like on the surface of waters in a transparent blanket

Ophelia swam like a white lily.

A - black, white - E, I - red, U - green,

O - blue... Vowels, your birth dates

I'll open it again... A - black and furry

A corset of buzzing flies over a stinking pile.

E - the whiteness of the tents and in the flakes of snow wool

The peak, the trembling of a flower, the sparkle of a crown;

And - purple, blood spit, laughter illuminated with anger

Or intoxicated with repentance at the hour of reckoning.

U - cycle, sea surf with its green juice,

The world of pastures, the world of wrinkles that are on the high brow

Alchemy imprinted in the silence of the night.

O - the primordial Horn, piercing and strange.

Silence, where are the worlds, and angels, and countries,

Omega, the blue ray and the light of Her Eyes.

Speckled, gray; green circles
Their blunt muscles are outlined;
The whole head is covered in bumps, it comes with lichen,
Like the leper flowering of the wall;

Skeleton black straw chair
They instilled their monstrous backbone;
An epileptic passion for the Seat bent them down,
They marry with crooked rods.

They are forever inseparable from chairs.
Substituting my bald head under the pink sunset,
They look out the window where the winters fade,
And with small tremors the toads tremble painfully.

And the Seats are merciful to them: submissive
Brown straw for their sharp bones.
In the mustachioed ear, where the grains swelled,
The soul of ancient suns shines on old people.

And so, sitting with their knees pressed to their teeth,
They beat the bottom of the chairs like a booming drum,
And the roar of the barcarolles is filled with sweet laziness,
And my head is dizzy with swaying and fog.

Don't make them stand up! After all, this is a disaster!
They will rise up, growling like an angry cat,
Slowly straighten the shoulder blades... O Golgotha!
Each pant leg sticks up on them.

They walk, and the trampling of feet sounds stronger than reproaches,
And they poke at the walls, staggering from melancholy,
And their buttons in the darkness of the corridors
They attract you like wild pupils.

They have invisible destructive hands...
They sit down again, but their gaze is sharpened by poison,
Frozen in the pitiful eyes of a beaten bitch, -
And you sweat, plunging into this gaze.

Clenching my fists in greasy cuffs,
They cannot forget those who forced them to stand up,
And the evil Adam’s apples of old people are hurt
From morning to evening we are ready to tremble.

When the harsh sleep lowers their visor,
They will see again, fruitful their chair,
A line of chairs in a brilliant hall,
Worthy of becoming the children of the one who fell asleep here.

Ink flowers, spread roses
They enthusiastically vomit the pollen of commas,
Cradling love like blue dragonflies,
And again the straws tickle the old oud.

Seated Black with papillomas, gnarled, with Green circles around the eyes, with phalanges in knots, With the backs of their heads, where anger bristles in mounds And blooms like leprosy on the walls, They, in epileptic coitus, grafted their inconceivable frame onto the skeletons of chairs; Their legs are intertwined with the bars of wood in powerlessness in the morning, and in the afternoon, and at the late hour. Yes, these old people with their seats are One both in the heat and on the days when their gaze is fixed on the windows where the frost fades - And with the trembling of toads they tremble painfully. But the seats are merciful to them, whose straw has long been accustomed to their bony bodies; The spirit of the sun of past years shines again in a familiar way In the ears that are intertwined, giving away their grain. And so those sitting, with their knees drawn to their teeth and lightly drumming on the seats, listen to the sad barcarolles, and in languor their heads sway as if on the waves. Don't make them get up! This is a wreck! Like a beaten cat, they hiss, Pants bristle - oh, unanswered rage! - Once outside, your collarbones will creak. And you will hear their disgusting rustling steps, the blows of their bald heads on the door frames, and their buttons - the pupils that in the corridors will stare into your eyes, escaping from melancholy. When they return, their black gaze will begin to exude poison, like the gaze of beaten bitches, and you will break out in sweat when the terrible funnel suddenly begins to stubbornly suck you in. Hiding their fists under dirty cuffs, They will remember those who forced them to stand up; Under their chin until the evening from dawn, the tonsil clusters will move again. When sleep bows his head on his elbow, Then they dream of the conceived seats And baby chairs, whose charm frames the important offices with their presence. Ink flowers rock the sleeping ones, spitting out pollen in the form of commas On these old people, as if sitting on a pot... - And the dried ear tickles their penis. ***

Closet

Here is an old carved cabinet, whose oak tree with dark streaks began to resemble good old men long ago; The closet is thrown open, and darkness pours out from all the secluded corners, like old wine. Full of everything: a pile of old things, Pleasant-smelling yellow linen, Grandmother’s scarf, where there is an image of a Griffin, lace, and ribbons, and rags; Here you will find medallions and portraits, A strand of white hair and a strand of a different color, Children's clothes, dried flowers... Oh, the closet of bygone times! There are all sorts of stories and many fairy tales you keep securely behind this door, blackened and creaky.

*** Evgeniy Golovin "THESE SPECTRA OF BARROCO..." *** N.I. Balashov. Rimbaud and the connection between two centuries of poetry L.G.Andreev. The Rimbaud phenomenon *** First evening She was half-dressed, And from the yard an immodest elm knocked on the window without answer, Close to us, close to us. Sitting casually on a tall chair, She intertwined her fingers, And suddenly I saw a slight trembling of the tender leg, I saw it suddenly. And I saw how a crazy and unsteady Ray circles, circles like a moth In her eyes, in her smile, Sits on her chest secretly. Here I planted a kiss on her slender ankle, In response, she laughed loudly, And the laughter was harsh and timid. Shy legs under the shirt took cover: “What do you call it?” And as if she wanted to punish me with laughter for her mistake. I have another trick in store! His lips barely touched his eyes; She threw her head back: “So, sir, it’s better... But now You need to tell me something...” I kissed her chest, And a quiet laugh was my reward, This laughter wished me well... She was half naked , And from the yard an immodest elm knocked on the window without answer, Close to us, close to us. 1870 *** Transparent water, like the salt of childhood tears; rushes towards the sun of women's bodies with their whiteness; silk banners of pure lilies under the wall, where a virgin found protection nearby. Angels fuss. - No... a golden flow, the movement of his hands, black, wet and fresh from the grass. She, gloomy, does not care whether the shadow of the hills above her or the blue sky. *** Oh, wet window and boiling bubbles! The water covered the entire bed with pale gold. The faded green clothes of the maidens look like willow trees, whose foliage hides the singing of birds. Like a yellow eyelid, and purer than a louis d'or, the lily opened - yours, Wife, fidelity! - on the dim mirror, feeling jealous of the dear Sun that will disappear so soon. *** Madame stood too straight in the neighboring clearing; umbrella in hand, and firmly trampling a crushed flower; she carried herself proudly; and the children on the grass opened the morocco volume and began to read. Alas, He departed... Like angels who parted on the road, invisible behind the hill. And now She is anxious, black and cold, running after the one who has disappeared. ***

- How is the 150th anniversary of Arthur Rimbaud celebrated?

2004 in France is the Year of Arthur Rimbaud, and this date is especially important for our small town of Charleville, which today has a population of about 60 thousand people. All year we will celebrate this date in different forms, but the general idea is the same: leave the cramped walls of museums and libraries and go out into the streets. In our city, we will organize a parade with festive illumination - lines from the poet’s poems will be projected onto the facades of 17th-century houses in the central square (reminiscent, by the way, of the Parisian Place des Vosges). In the same square, 800 busts of Rimbaud are exhibited. Meanwhile, of course, we hold many exhibitions dedicated to his life and work - for example, we have prepared an exhibition of one hundred and fifty illustrators of Rimbaud's poems. Conferences will also be held, including ones dedicated to Arthur Rimbaud’s Africa, that is, the latest and least studied period of the poet’s life. But we must not forget that it was in our city, in our Ardennes, that Rimbaud’s path began.

- Are Rimbaud’s relatives taking part in the celebrations?

Yes, his older brother Frederick had two daughters, they also had children, and today the great-grandniece of the poet himself participates in many events. For example, tomorrow she will help open a film festival dedicated to the memory of Arthur Rimbaud, and today she will cut the ribbon at the opening of a new space for the Rimbaud House Museum. In particular, some manuscripts that have not yet been exhibited will be presented there. By the way, these thirty square meters of house on the embankment of the Meuse River, still closed to the public, where Arthur spent his childhood, are the place where he conceived his first poems. Maybe he didn’t write them here, because for us he remains first and foremost a poet-traveler, but his first ideas were definitely born in this house.

- Which public today is most interested in Rimbaud’s work? As a museum curator, you should know this.

Arthur Rimbaud remains a young poet and a poet for the young. This is an image, a symbol. He died young, the most famous photographs show us the young Rimbaud, and he was very young when he stopped writing. However, even more important is the relevance of his poems and prose, which makes him a poet not only of the 20th, but also of the 21st century. Collections of his poems have been translated into 37 languages, it’s almost the Bible! By the way, we know how many fans of Rimbaud’s genius live in Russia.

- “The Damned Poets” were iconic for the era of modernism - today even postmodernism is considered out of fashion. What makes Rimbaud a “poet of the 21st century”?

Not all of his poems are so famous and popular now - after all, many of his early works were inspired by the classics, the “Parnassian” school. However, Rimbaud's main task, in his own words, was the invention of new words, new language, new metaphors. The music of his poetry was absolutely innovative; he foresaw the twentieth century. He guessed about many things that were yet to happen. Arthur Rimbaud is also a poet and predictor.

- What does the fact that relatively recently his role in Agnieszka Holland’s film “Total Eclipse” was played by the incredibly popular Hollywood actor Leonardo DiCaprio give to the image of Arthur Rimbaud?

I would say that for us, genuine and even obsessive fans of the poet, there is no actor worthy of playing the role of Arthur Rimbaud. The point here is not the talent of the actors - be it DiCaprio or Terrence Stamp - or even their external resemblance. This number is not working! The character of Rimbaud himself refuses a possible incarnation in film. By choosing any actor to play his role, we are committing treason against the poet. Arthur was first and foremost a writer, and we can reveal his true face only through poetry, and not through the image of a youth who reads “The Drunken Ship” while standing on a table in a tavern, or wanders through the foggy streets of Brussels in the company of Verlaine. This, forgive me, is some kind of caricature in which the relationship of two poets is more important than creativity.

Drunk schoolboy

Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud was born on October 20, 1854 in the French town of Charleville into a military family. At school, Arthur was one of the most brilliant and diligent students. Rimbaud rhymed his first lines at the age of eight, and at fourteen he already saw his poems published. At the same age, Rimbaud's character changes. He runs away from home, goes to prison, and begins to behave extravagantly and rudely. This is how the poet Paul Verlaine recognized Arthur, to whom in August 1871 Rimbaud sent a letter with the manuscript of The Drunken Ship. They begin a whirlwind romance, which causes Verlaine to leave his family. In 1873, during their usual scandal, Verlaine wounds Rimbaud with a pistol and goes to prison. After the break with Verlaine, Rimbaud wrote no more poetry. He traveled a lot, even reaching Africa, where he contracted sarcoma. In May 1891, Rimbaud's right leg was amputated, but this did not save him and he died on November 10. Arthur Rimbaud was buried in Charleville.

Arthur Rimbaud(Jean Arthur Nicolas Rimbaud, 1854-1891) - an outstanding French poet. Rimbaud's biography is extraordinary. He was born in Charleville into a poor petty-bourgeois family. As a child, Rimbaud rebelled against domestic oppression, religious upbringing, and the hypocrisy of the provincial petty bourgeoisie. During the Franco-Prussian War, the teenager Rimbaud mocked the patriots. In 1871, having arrived in Paris, he participated in the struggle of the Commune. Finding himself after the Parisian barricades in a provincial outback, Rimbaud sent his poems to Paris to Verlaine, then already a famous poet, and soon received an invitation to the capital. For Verlaine, an unbalanced man, acquaintance with Rimbaud turned into an ardent friendship, apparently sexually tinged. Together with Verlaine, Rimbaud traveled around France and Belgium and lived in London for quite a long time. In Brussels, after a major quarrel, Verlaine shot at Rimbaud, wounded him and went to prison for two years. Rimbaud again had to live for some time in the provinces, where in 1873 he published (the only one he personally published) a book of poetry and prose “Une saison en enfer” (A Quarter of a Year in Hell). Rimbaud's attempts to penetrate the press failed. Little by little, Rimbaud's life turned into a real adventure novel. Rimbaud went to wander around Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and even thought about Russia. He volunteered for the Carlist troops, then joined the Dutch army, but upon arrival in Java he deserted, risking his life. At one time, Rimbaud served in the Cypriot quarries, traveled with a circus, etc. Having abandoned many early dreams, including the dream of literary fame, Rimbaud, as a sales agent, settled first in Aden, then in Abyssinia, where he lived for over 10 years, making trade expeditions into the interior of the country. Gradually all of Rimbaud's beliefs and tastes changed. He began saving money in order to eventually start a “respectable” life. But it was precisely at this time that Rimbaud’s poetic fame began. Longtime friends published his poems, Verlaine wrote a brilliant article about him. News of this reached Rimbaud, but, having finished with the chimeras, he spoke disparagingly about his literary past. In February 1891, Rimbaud fell from a horse, fell ill and was forced to go to Europe for treatment. And in November of the same year, the poet died a painful death in a Marseille hospital.

Rimbaud studied literature for about 4 years, at the age of 16-20. But the significance of these youthful experiences is such that in Rimbaud one can see one of the greatest French poets of the 19th century. Rimbaud's work is instructive in that it is inextricably linked with the first period of the poet's biography, the most important moment being his participation in the struggle of the Paris Commune. The main pathos of Rimbaud’s work is the pathos of protest of the radical petty bourgeoisie and the declassed, partly lumpen-proletarian lower classes against the orders of the Second Empire. Some of Rimbaud's youthful works were written in the Parnassian spirit, but along with this imitation, Rimbaud also began to develop another creative line - the line of civil lyricism in the spirit of Hugo - "Le forgeron" (The Blacksmith), as well as very spontaneous personal lyrics, everyday sketches, and cartoons. As if saying goodbye to the frozen traditions of Parnassus, Rimbaud wrote in 1870 an evil parody of the image of Venus, beloved by the Parnassians, born from sea foam (Rimbaud’s goddess crawls out of a green bath as a fat, tattooed woman, with a disgusting ulcer on her bottom). He quickly moved on to the most original poems, saturated primarily with political and anti-religious content - to poems full of mockery of government publicists, the empire, the military, priests, bourgeois inhabitants, and the executioners of Versailles. A significant part of these poems was written by Rimbaud after the defeat of the Commune. However, Rimbaud’s lack of a definite, class-revolutionary worldview, lack of connections with the progressive public (admittedly scattered at that time), and the poet’s complete loneliness in the conditions of provincial life could not help strengthen Rimbaud’s revolutionary position during the years of reaction. In some of his last poems one can feel the unbridled rage of a rebel, but at the same time Rimbaud, being in the outback, tried to exotically transform the disgusting world, wrote the poem “Bateau ivre” (Drunk Ship), a sonnet about colored vowels (“Voyelles”), etc. However, in the newest edition of Poesies, it is not for nothing that “Les corbeaux” (The Crows), this requiem to the Commune, this groan about defeat, is featured as the final poem. Therefore, taking into account all the contradictions of Rimbaud’s work and life, the genetic connection between the petty-bourgeois and lumpenproletarian sentiments of early Rimbaud and the later transformation of the poet into a colonizer, in no case should one ignore the basic, essentially revolutionary content of Rimbaud’s literary heritage.

As an artist of words, Rimbaud is an innovator. From the verified verse of the Parnassian style, Rimbaud quickly moved on to a deliberate disregard for caesuras, to a conscious violation of classical stanzas, to free dissonances. His poems amaze with the abundance of the most daring metaphors and comparisons. Notable in Rimbaud's poetry is his fearless use of slang and prosaic colloquialism. In his passionate satires, there are also frequent vulgar curses thrown directly into the face of the enemy. Rimbaud has many very extravagant themes - “Les chercheuses de poux” (Seekers in the Hair), “Oraison du soir” (Evening Prayer) and many others. others, written clearly as a challenge, but invariably lyrical.

Perhaps less significant is Rimbaud's prose - his “Les illuminations” (Illuminations) and “Une saison en enfer” (A Quarter of a Year in Hell). However, her verbal expressiveness is extremely high. Rimbaud transferred the usual techniques of poetry into prose. Pointing to a decadent decline in Rimbaud's work, these works, like some later poems, testify to the departure of this petty-bourgeois artist into the realm of fiction, a departure forced by the oppressive impressions of French reality after 1871.

Rimbaud's influence affected a number of French writers and poets. But Rimbaud's successors borrowed and are borrowing least of all the ideological orientation of the poet's best works. In Russia, Rimbaud’s work was adopted by our Symbolists, and later influenced the Futurists.

The bourgeoisie has long created its own version of Rimbaud. From his creative heritage, the most subjective and fantastic things are usually extracted, like “The Drunken Ship,” the sonnet “Vowels,” etc. The political nature of Rimbaud’s work is usually ignored or reinterpreted in a variety of ways. The first biographers, researchers and publishers of Rimbaud did not even stop at correcting his works and letters, and also arranged the texts accordingly. Only in relatively recent times, in the works of M. Coulomb and others, has an approach to a more accurate understanding of Rimbaud’s creativity and personality been noticed. In Russia, a misconception about Rimbaud was adopted by the majority of those who wrote about him. In Soviet times, other judgments about Rimbaud appeared, but a true assessment of the poet is still to come.