I'm lucky not to suffer more. My life was nothing but lovely mistakes, it's too bad. We're out of the world, for sure. Not even a sound. My touch has disappeared. Ah, my castle, my Saxony, my willow woods. Evenings, mornings, nights, days.
I'm worn out! I should have my hell for anger, my hell for conceit—and the hell of caresses: a concert of hells. I'm dying of tiredness. It's the grave, horror of horrors, I'm going to the worms! Satan, you joker, you want to melt me down with your charms.
I demand it, I demand it! Ah, to come back to life again! To feast my eyes on our deformities. And that poison, that kiss a thousand times damned!
My weakness, the world's cruelty! My God, mercy, hide me, I always misbehave! Materials for Teachers Materials for Teachers Home. Poems for Kids. Poems for Teens. Lesson Plans. Teach this Poem.
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Poems Find and share the perfect poems. A Season in Hell. One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap. I armed myself against justice. I ran away.
A Season in Hell is an extended poem in prose written and published in by French writer Arthur Rimbaud. It is the only work that was published by. "Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!" From A Season in Hell & Illuminations by Arthur Rimbaud, translated by Bertrand Mathieu (BOA Editions, ). A volatile and peripatetic poet, the prodigy Arthur Rimbaud wrote all of his poetry in.
O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure's been turned over to you! And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot. Charity is that key. The Seekers of Lice When the boy's head, full of raw torment, Longs for hazy dreams to swarm in white, Two charming older sisters come to his bed With slender fingers and silvery nails. They sit him at a casement window, thrown Open on a mass of flowers basking in blue air, And run the fine, intimidating witchcraft Of their fingers through his dew-dank hair. He listens to their diffident, sing-song breath, Smelling of elongated honey off the rose, Broken now and then by a hiss: saliva sucked Back from the lip, or a longing to be kissed.
He hears their dark eyelashes start in the sweet- Smelling silence and, through his grey listlessness, The crackle of small lice dying, beneath The imperious nails of their soft, electric fingers. The wine of Torpor wells up in him then — Near on trance, a harmonica-sigh — And in their slow caress he feels The endless ebb and flow of a desire to cry. Arthur Rimbaud Novel I. No one's serious at seventeen. Lindens smell fine on fine June nights! Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes; The wind brings sounds—the town is near— And carries scents of vineyards and beer.
June nights! Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. The mind wanders, you feel a kiss On your lips, quivering like a living thing. The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels —And when a young girl walks alluringly Through a streetlamp's pale light, beneath the ominous shadow Of her father's starched collar.
Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping, She turns on a dime, eyes wide, Finding you too sweet to resist. You're in love. Off the market till August. Your friends are gone, you're bad news. That night. Hellish Night I've swallowed a terrific mouthful of poison. Noble ambitions! It's the fire flaring up again with its damned! Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter. Teach This Poem. Follow Us. Find Poets. Read Stanza. Jobs for Poets. Materials for Teachers. The Walt Whitman Award.
James Laughlin Award. Ambroggio Prize. Dear Poet Project. For more examples, look no further than Paul Verlaine. Verlaine was another French poet who discovered Rimbaud when Rimbaud was living on the streets in Paris at the age of sixteen.
I thought I had acquired supernatural powers. The pagan blood returns! Vows erupt! The inferior race has spread everywhere — the people, as one says, reason: the nation and science. Well then, demon! I was lucky not to suffer more.
Impressed by the young man, he took Rimbaud in, but things quickly went south and Rimbaud had to leave. Clearly, Rimbaud must have made an impression, though. Soon after, Verlaine dumped his wife and family and moved in young Arthur to pursue a romantic relationship. It didn't turn out too well, sadly. They broke up after just 18 months, after a drunken Verlaine shot Rimbaud in the arm. Yeah, that would put a damper on a relationship we think.
It was during this break-up that Rimbaud wrote " A Season in Hell. He self-published it in , but he never had the money to distribute the copies. They sat in a printer's basement until , a full decade after his death.
Still, the poem remains a wildly imaginative, dense, and surreal testament to Rimbaud's experimental style and turbulent life. It's also an unfiltered, emotional take on the pain of romantic turmoil. Rimbaud may have disowned it, but the rest of the world is still taking notice. You've been dumped—or, if you haven't been yet, you will be. We hate to break it to you like this. We know you're here for deets on the poem, not grim predictions about your love life. But it's true: romantic heartbreak is coming for you, if it hasn't visited you already.
You can lock yourself in your room and swear off romance forever. Or you can rush right out and jump right back into the dating pool. But have you learned anything? And if so, how do you know?