Arthur Rimbaud

Arthur Rimbaud Biography

Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud was a French poet. Born in Charleville, Ardennes, he produced his best known works while still in his late teens—Victor Hugo described him at the time as "an infant Shakespeare"—and he gave up creative writing altogether before the age of 20. As part of the decadent ...

Arthur Rimbaud Quotes

11 November 2014

The poet makes himself a seer by a long, prodigious, and rational disordering of all the senses. Every form of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he consumes all the poisons in him, and keeps only their quintessences.

11 November 2014

I saw that all beings are fated to happiness: action is not life, but a way of wasting some force, an ennervation. Morality is the weakness of the brain.

11 November 2014

But, truly, I have wept too much! The dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.

11 November 2014

Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.

11 November 2014

Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.

Arthur Rimbaud Comments

Shakti Shetty 22 July 2006

If u r looking for a true rebel..a constant disclaimer of world orthodoxy then rimbaud is the closest you can get................ morever he was young, vibrant and too close to dream than reality.........unashamed of his thoughts, profane at times but nonetheless a genius who wrote with no qualm whatsoever!

42 17 Reply
Jetty J Newnham 19 November 2012

If I hadn't read the beat poets I may never of heard Rimbaud, I thank them for that. Its also possible that if I had not read either I may not write my own.

32 21 Reply
Grace Moneymaker 23 December 2014

Good ol' Arthur Rimbaud. He inspires me to write poetry, even though I am a troubled poet like he was. One of the best.

16 27 Reply
Nellie Cbriggs 12 July 2020

I commend this pastor for taking responsibility and asking his community to take specific precautions before coming back together. It is unfortunate that the Texas state guidelines may have been more lax..............self21.

1 0 Reply
Soran M. H 08 February 2020

Rimbaud the rebel and creative poet for centuries...his soul shining in the sky among the bright stars... our favorite poet.....

9 0 Reply
Nadeem Ishaque 03 November 2018

Rimbaud can so easily vacillate between the lyric and the epic

5 1 Reply
Frederick Kesner 08 March 2018

An elusive character to the end. A major struggle in the study of Rimbaud would be his turning completely away from poetry in the last years of his life. It must have been a personal torment for poetry flows naturally from wells springing from within the poet.

6 3 Reply
Fabrizio Frosini 22 November 2015

by Rimbaud, in Italian: La danza degli impiccati Alla nera forca, amabile moncone, danzano, danzano i paladini, i magri paladini del demonio, gli scheletri dei Saladini! Messer Belzebù tira per la cravatta i suoi piccoli neri fantocci che fan smorfie al cielo, e picchiandoli in fronte con la ciabatta li fa danzare sulle note d'un vecchio Natale! E i fantocci scioccati intrecciano i loro gracili braccini, come neri organi i petti squarciati che un tempo stringevano dolci donzelle cozzano a lungo in un amore immondo. Urrà per i gai danzatori che non hanno più pancia! Possono fare giravolte, perché il palco è così grande! Op! Che non si sappia se è danza o battaglia! Belzebù irato coi suoi violini raglia! O duri talloni, non usate mai sandali! Quasi tutti han tolto la camicia di pelle! Il resto non impaccia si guarda senza schifo. Sui crani la neve posa un candido cappello: la cornacchia è un pennacchio sulle incrinate teste, un brano di carne trema sul mento scarno: si direbbe vorticante nelle oscure resse di prodi, rigide armature di cartone. Urrà! La tramontana soffia al gran ballo degli scheletri! La forca nera mugola come un organo di ferro! E i lupi rispondono da foreste violette: all'orizzonte il cielo è d'un rosso inferno... Olà, scuotete quei funebri capitani che sgranano sornioni tra le dita spezzate un rosario d'amore sulle vertebre pallide: questo non è un monastero, o trapassati! Oh! Ecco, nel mezzo della danza macabra nel cielo rosso un folle scheletro avanza di slancio, e come un cavallo impenna: e, poiché al collo la corda è stretta, raggrinza le dita sul femore che scricchiola con grida simili a ghigni e come un acrobata che rientra nella sua baracca rimbalza nel ballo al canto delle ossa. Alla nera forca, amabile moncone, danzano, danzano i paladini, i magri paladini del demonio, gli scheletri dei Saladini! -Arthur Rimbaud

166 5 Reply

The Best Poem Of Arthur Rimbaud

Novel

I.

No one's serious at seventeen.
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
--You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.

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. . .

II.

--Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .

June nights! Seventeen!--Drink it in.
Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
The mind wanders, you feel a kiss
On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .

III.

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. . .
--And cavatinas die on your lips.

IV.

You're in love. Off the market till August.
You're in love.--Your sonnets make Her laugh.
Your friends are gone, you're bad news.
--Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!

That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
You order beer or lemonade. . .
--No one's serious at seventeen
When lindens line the promenade.

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Arthur Rimbaud Popularity

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