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Rimbaud, Hugo, and Apollinaire
| Article
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19737 |
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Section : |
THE ARTS
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| Issue
Date : |
3 / 1991 |
222 Words |
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Translated by Graeme Wilson
Herb Greer is an American writer and playwright who lives in
Britain and on the Continent. |
Au Cabaret Vert
Those eight days on the road, their wear-and tear,
Had left my boots stone-savaged. Limping late,
I came to Charleroi, to the Cabaret Vert.
I asked for buttered doorsteps and a plate
Of anything they had: some half-cold ham.
Relaxed, I stretched leg's ache beneath their green
Table and stared, too tired to give a damn,
At the daft doings in the simple scene
Their wallpaper repeated.
Bliss, pure bliss
Flowed over me when that big-breasted chick--
Nor one, her bright eyes signaled, whom a kiss
Would discompose--brought in my butter-thick
Slabs of rich bread, my luke-warm pink-and-white
Ham with it sprigs of garlic; all sweet-spread
On a painted plate. Dear Christ, how good the sight
Of the mug she smiled to fill, whose frothing head,
Not the expected white, shone golden-red
In one long sunshaft of late evening light.
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
Annie
Between Mobile and Galveston
On the curve of the Texan coast,
Overgrown with roses
There is this most
Gi-normous bloody garden
In which, itself another
Bloody great rose, a villa blooms
Among its flower-smother.
Often in that
...
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