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"Κατέγραφα σιωπές, σκοτάδια, αποτύπωνα το άφατο. Καθήλωνα ιλίγγους." Όλη η προσπάθεια του Ρεμπώ, να σπάσει το φράγμα του ανέκφραστου. Να διαπεράσει το τείχος της σιωπής. Ν' αρθρώσει κάτι που δεν μπορεί να ειπωθεί με λόγια.
Από τη μια, η σιωπή των πραγμάτων. Η αφασική κατάσταση του κόσμου που πασχίζει να την υπερβεί. Από την άλλη, η εκστατική σιγή της ψυχής που πασχίζει να τη βιώσει και -το πιο δύσκολο- να την αποτυπώσει. Στη μέση, εκείνος, να δίνει τη μάχη και τελικά να συνθλίβεται, επιλέγοντας την παραίτηση - την ηθελημένη προσωπική σιωπή, αντίστοιχη με τη σιωπή των ερημιτών. "Παραισθήσεις αναρίθμητες - αυτές που πάντα με βασάνιζαν... Προτιμώ να σωπάσω".
Συνειδητοποίηση του μάταιου ή του ανέφικτου; Άσκηση; Αυτοτιμωρία; Κρυφή προσευχή;
Όλο το έργο του, καταγραφή ανείπωτης μαρτυρίας. Κραυγή, τραγούδι, χρώματα φωνής που παραισθάνεται. Ψυχεδελικές εικόνες φτιαγμένες από παράτονη μελωδία.
Η ποίησή του δεν θυμίζει ούτε ό,τι προηγήθηκε ούτε ό,τι ακολούθησε. Ο Ρεμπώ διάλεξε το ακατόρθωτο: να ψηλαφήσει και να κρούσει τις πιο αψηλάφητες χορδές. Να κάνει τη σιωπή να μιλήσει. Να διαβάσει τη μουσική του κόσμου που μας κοιτάζει αμίλητος, μοχθηρός, κλειστός στο μυστήριό του. Να βάλει σε λέξεις τον ενορατικό αυτισμό του.
«Τις ώρες που πικραίνομαι φαντάζομαι σφαίρες από ζαφείρι, από μέταλλο. Είμαι κύριος της σιωπής. Γιατί, λοιπόν, η όψη ενός φεγγίτη να χλομιάσει στην άκρια του θόλου;»
Από τη μια, η σιωπή των πραγμάτων. Η αφασική κατάσταση του κόσμου που πασχίζει να την υπερβεί. Από την άλλη, η εκστατική σιγή της ψυχής που πασχίζει να τη βιώσει και -το πιο δύσκολο- να την αποτυπώσει. Στη μέση, εκείνος, να δίνει τη μάχη και τελικά να συνθλίβεται, επιλέγοντας την παραίτηση - την ηθελημένη προσωπική σιωπή, αντίστοιχη με τη σιωπή των ερημιτών. "Παραισθήσεις αναρίθμητες - αυτές που πάντα με βασάνιζαν... Προτιμώ να σωπάσω".
Συνειδητοποίηση του μάταιου ή του ανέφικτου; Άσκηση; Αυτοτιμωρία; Κρυφή προσευχή;
Όλο το έργο του, καταγραφή ανείπωτης μαρτυρίας. Κραυγή, τραγούδι, χρώματα φωνής που παραισθάνεται. Ψυχεδελικές εικόνες φτιαγμένες από παράτονη μελωδία.
Η ποίησή του δεν θυμίζει ούτε ό,τι προηγήθηκε ούτε ό,τι ακολούθησε. Ο Ρεμπώ διάλεξε το ακατόρθωτο: να ψηλαφήσει και να κρούσει τις πιο αψηλάφητες χορδές. Να κάνει τη σιωπή να μιλήσει. Να διαβάσει τη μουσική του κόσμου που μας κοιτάζει αμίλητος, μοχθηρός, κλειστός στο μυστήριό του. Να βάλει σε λέξεις τον ενορατικό αυτισμό του.
«Τις ώρες που πικραίνομαι φαντάζομαι σφαίρες από ζαφείρι, από μέταλλο. Είμαι κύριος της σιωπής. Γιατί, λοιπόν, η όψη ενός φεγγίτη να χλομιάσει στην άκρια του θόλου;»
189 pages, Paperback
Published January 1, 2008
34 people are currently reading
771 people want to read
About the author
Arthur Rimbaud
734 books2,719 followersHallucinatory work of French poet Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud strongly influenced the surrealists.
With known transgressive themes, he influenced modern literature and arts, prefiguring. He started writing at a very young age and excelled as a student but abandoned his formal education in his teenage years to run away to Paris amidst the Franco-Prussian war. During his late adolescence and early adulthood, he produced the bulk of his literary output. After assembling his last major work, Illuminations , Rimbaud completely stopped writing literature at age 20 years in 1874.
A hectic, violent romantic relationship, which lasted nearly two years at times, with fellow poet Paul Verlaine engaged Rimbaud, a libertine, restless soul. After his retirement as a writer, he traveled extensively on three continents as a merchant and explorer until his death from cancer. As a poet, Rimbaud is well known for his contributions to symbolism and, among other works, for A Season in Hell , a precursor to modernist literature.
With known transgressive themes, he influenced modern literature and arts, prefiguring. He started writing at a very young age and excelled as a student but abandoned his formal education in his teenage years to run away to Paris amidst the Franco-Prussian war. During his late adolescence and early adulthood, he produced the bulk of his literary output. After assembling his last major work, Illuminations , Rimbaud completely stopped writing literature at age 20 years in 1874.
A hectic, violent romantic relationship, which lasted nearly two years at times, with fellow poet Paul Verlaine engaged Rimbaud, a libertine, restless soul. After his retirement as a writer, he traveled extensively on three continents as a merchant and explorer until his death from cancer. As a poet, Rimbaud is well known for his contributions to symbolism and, among other works, for A Season in Hell , a precursor to modernist literature.
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July 11, 2018
هذه المناظرة ما بين الترجمتين
تعطينا فكرة واضحة عن قدرتنا المتخاذلة في الترجمة
!
وتظل القارب السكران واحدة من أفضل وأعمق القطع الشعرية في كل العصور
--------
حينَما كُنْتُ نازِلاً في الأَنهارِ السّاكِنَة،
لَمْ أَعُدْ أَسْتَشْعِرُني مُنْقادًا بِصَخَبِ المَلاّحين،
حُمْرُ الجُلود مُصَيّحون، قَدْ اتّخَذوهُم أَهْدافا،
وسَمّروهُمْ عُراةً على الصّواري المُلَوّنَة.
***
لَقد كُنْتُ غَيْرَ مُبالٍ بِجميعِ الطّاقَم،
حمّالٌ لِلْقَمْحِ "الفْلاماني" أو لِلْقُطْنِ الإنْجليزي،
حينَ انْتَهَتْ مَعَ صَخَبِ المَلاّحينَ هَذه الضّوْضاء،
تَرَكَتْني الأَنْهارُ أَنْ أَنْزِلَ حَيْثُما أَشاء.
***
في بَقْبَقاتِ المَرِيّاتِ الحانِقَة،
أَنا، الشّتاء الآخَر كُنْتُ أَكثَر طَرَشًا مِن أَدْمِغَةِ الأَطْفال،
جَرَيْتُ والقارّاتُ المُنْدَفِعَة،
لمْ تَتَحَمّل تَخَبّطاتٍ أَكْثَرَ مِنّي انْتِصارا.
***
لقَدْ بارَكَتِ العاصِفَةُ تَطَلُّعاتي البَحْرِيّة،
وأَكْثَرَ خِفَّةً مِن سَدّادَةِ فِلّين رَقَصْتُ على اليّمّ،
هذا المُسَمّى بِالمُداهِنِ الأَبَديّ للضّحايا،
عَشْر لَيالٍ بِدون حَسْرَة على عَيْنِ الفَوانيسِ البَلْهاء.
***
وكَما هِي أَشَدّ عُذوبَةً على الأَطْفالِ حُموضَة لَحْمَةِ التُّفّاح،
اخْتَرَقَتِ المِياهُ الخَضْراءُ هَيْكَلي الصّنَوْبَري،
ومِنْ بُقَعِ قَيْئٍ وخُمورٍ زَرْقاء،
غَسَلَتْني مُشَتِّتَةً دفّةَ المَرْكَبِ ومَراسيه.
***
ومِنْ وَقْتِها اسْتَحْمَمْتُ في قَصيَدةِ،
البَحْرِ الحَليبيّ، المُنَقّعِ بِالأَفْلاك،
مُفْتَرٍسًا اللاّزَوَرْدَ الأَخْضَرَ، حَيثُ الغَطَسُ المُمْتَقِع،
وحَيْثُ مُبْتَهِجًا، غَريقٌ مُتَفَكِّرٌ يَنْزِلُ أَحْيانًا.
***
حَيثُ صابِغًا للزُّرُقاتِ فَجْأَةً، هَذياناتٌ،
وإيقاعاتٌ بَطيئَة تَحْتَ لَمَعاناتِ الصّباح،
أكْثَرَ قُوّةً مِنَ الكُحولِ وأَكْثَرَ رَحابَةً مِنْ مَزاهِرِنا،
تَخْتَمِرُ صُهْبَةُ الحُبِّ المَريرَة !
***
أعْرِفُ السَماواتِ المُتَصَدِّعَةَ باِلبُروق، وأعْمِدَةِ الماء،
واصْطِداماتِ الأَمْواجِ بِالحَواجِزِ والتّيارات، أَعْرِفُ المَساء،
والفَجْرَ المُتَحَمِّس كَشَعْبٍ مِنَ اليَمام،
ورَأَيْتُ في بَعْضِ الأَحْيانِ، ما اعْتَقَدَ المَرْءُ رُؤْيَتَه !
***
رَأَيْتُ الشّمْسَ في المُنْحَدَرِ مُلَطّخَةً بِفظاعاتٍ روحانِيّة،
مُزَيِّنَةً باِلأنْوارِ لِنِثاراتٍ بَنَفْسَجِيّة طَويلَة،
ومِثْل مُمَثِّلين لِمآسي جِدّ عَتيقَة،
كانَتْ كُثَلُ المَوْجِ تَسوقُ إلى البَعيدِ اِرْتِعاشاتُ مَصارِعِها !
***
حَلمْتُ اللّيْلَةَ خَضْراءَ بِثُلوجٍ مُبْهِرَة،
بالقُبْلَةِ صاعِدَةً إلى عُيونِ البِحارِ، بِتَثاقُلات،
بِسَريانِ النّسُغِ الخارِقَة لِعادَةِ السّمْع،
وباليَقَظَةِ الصّفْراءَ والزّرْقاءَ لِلْفُسفوراتِ المُغَنّيَة !
***
ولقَدْ تَتَبّعْتُ أَشْهُرًا بِكامِلِها، أَشْبَهَ بِمَرابي البَقَر،
الهِسْتيرِيّة، الأَمْواجَ الصّاخِبَةَ وهيَ تَنْقَضُّ على حَشَفَةِ الصُّخور،
ولمْ يَخْطُر بِبالي بِأَنّ أَقْدامَ "المَرْيَمات" المُشِعّة،
بِقادِرَة على قَهْرِ مِشْفَر المُحيطاتِ اللاّهِثَة !
***
ولَقَد اِصْطَدَمْتُ، لَوْ تَعلَمون، ب"فْلوريدات" عَجيبَة،
مازِجَةً بالزّهورِ عُيونَ فُهودٍ ذاتَ جُلودٍ،
بَشَرِيّة ! أقْواسُ قُزَحٍ مَشْدودَة مِثلَ أعِنّة،
تَحْتَ أُفُقِ البِحارِ،إلى قِطْعانٍ خَضْراء !
***
ولقَدْ رَأَيْتُ اِخْتِمارَ"مارياتٍ" ضَخْمَة، شِباك،
حَيْثُ يَتَعَفّنُ في أَغْصانِ الأَسَلِ وَحْشًا هائِلا بِكامِلِه !
انْهِياراتٌ مائِيَةٌ في وَسَطِ بِحارٍ هادِئَة،
والبَعيدَة مِنْها، نَحْوَ دَرَكاتٍ شَلاّلِيَة !
***
قِبَبٌ جَليد، شُموسٌ مِنْ فِضّة، كُثَلُ أَمْواجٍ صَدَفِيّة،
وسَماواتٌ مِن جَمْر !]
اِنْجِرافٌ شَنيعٌ في أَعْماقِ الخِلْجانِ السّمْراء،
حَيْث الحَيّاتُ العِمْلاقَة، مُفْتَرَسَةً بِالبّقّ،
تَساقَطُ مِنْ أَشْجارٍ مَلْوِيّةٍ مَعَ عُطورٍ سَوْداء !
***
كُنْتُ أَوَدُّ أَن أورِيَ لِلأَطْفالِ هَذه "الدّورادات"،
مِنَ اليَمِّ الأَزْرَقِ، هَذه الأسْماكُ الذَّهَبِيّةُ، هَذِه المُغَنِّية،
- رَغوَةُ الوُرودِ قد هَدْهَدَت اِنْجِرافاتي،
ورياحٌ فائِقَةٌ لِلْوَصْفِ قَد جَنّحَتْني لِلَحَظات.
***
أَحْيانًا كَشهيدٍ، مُتْعَبٍ مِنَ الأَقْطابِ والمَناطِق،
البَحْرُ الذي مِنْ نَحيبِهِ كان يَجْعَلُ لي تَهَدْهُدي الوَديع،
تَصاعَدُ مِنْهُ نَحوي وُرودُ ظِلالٍ ذاتَ مَصّاصاتٍ صَفْراء،
وكُنْتُ أَظَلُّ كَذلِكَ كامْرَأَةٍ على رُكْبَتَيْها ...
***
شِبْه جَزيرَةٍ مُتقاذِفَةً لِلْخُصوماتِ على شُطوطي،
وذُرقُ الطّيورِ المُزّعّقَة ذات العُيونِ الشّقْراء،
وكُنْتُ مُبْحِرًا، حينَ عَبْرَ رِباطاتي الواهِيَة،
غَرْقى نَزَلوا لِلنَّوْمِ، مُتَراجِعينَ إلى الوَراء !...
***
لكِنّي أنا، مَرْكَبٌ مَفْقودٌ تَحتَ شَعَرِ عُرى سِلالِ صَيْدٍ عَتيقَة،
مَقْذوفًا بِالإعْصارِ في أثيرِ لا طَيْرَ فيه،
أنا، بِكِلتَيْهما "المونيتورات" وسُفُنُ "الهانْزْ" الشّراعِيّة،
لَم تَكُن لِتَنْتَشِلَ الهَيْكَلَ السّكْرانَ بِالماء.
***
حُرّا، مُدَخِّنًا، تَعْلوني ضَباباتٌ أُرْجُوانِيّة كَثيفَة،
أنا مَنْ كان يَثْقُبُ السّماءَ المُحْمَرّة مِثلَ جِدار،
مَنْ يَحْمِلُ مُرَبّى شهي للشّعَراء المُحْسِنين،
طَحْلَبُ الشّمْسِ ومَخاطاتُ اللاّزَوَرْد.
***
مَن كانَ يَعْدو، مُلَطّخا بِأَهِلّة كَهْرُبائِيّة،
خَشَبَةً مَجْنونَةً، تُواكِبُها حُصُن البَحْرِ السّوْداء،
حينَما كانَتْ "التّمّوزات" تُجَرِّفُ بِضَرباتِ الدّبابيس،
السَماوات الما وَراءَ بَحْرِيّة ذات القُموعِ المُتَأَجِّجَة.
***
أنا الذي كانَ يَرْتَعِدُ، حاسًّا، على خَمْسينَ فَرْسَخًا، بِنَحيبِ،
تَناسُلِ "البهيموتاتِ" البَحْرِيّة والزّوابِعَ الكَثيفَةَ، الجّبّارة،
وكغازِلٍ أَبَدِيّ للسّكونِ الأِزْرَق،
أتَحَسّرُ على أوربا ذات الحَواجِزَ القَديمَة !
***
رَأَيْتُ أرْخَبيلاتٍ كَوْكَبِيّة ! وجُزُر،
ذات سَماواتٍ هاذِيَة مَفْتوحَةً لِلْمُبْحِر،
- أ في هذه اللّيالي بِلا عُمْقٍ تَنامُ وتَتَغَرّب،
يا مليونَ طائِرٍ ذَهَبِيّ، ويا أيّتُها الشِّدّةُ المُسْتَقبَلِيّة؟
***
لكِنّي، حَقيقَةً، بَكَيْتُ كَثيرًا ! والأَسْحارُ كانَت مُؤْسِفَة،
كُلّ قَمَرٍ بَشِع وكُلّ شَمْسٍ مُرّة:
الحُبُّ الشّرِس قد مَلأَني بِخُدْرَةٍ مُسْكِرَة،
آه على حَيْزومي فَلْيَنْفَجِر ! ولأَمْضِيَنّ إلى البَحْر !
***
إذا كُنْتُ أَرْغَبُ في ماءِ أوربا فَفي بُحْرَةِ ماءٍ،
أسَوَد وبارِد حَيْث نَحْوَ الغَسقِ المُحَنّط،
طِفْلٌ مُتَرَبّعٌ، مَمْلوءٌ بالحُزْن، يُسَرِّحُ،
مَرْكَبًا هَشّا شَبيهًا بِفَراشَة أيار.
***
لم يَعُد بِمَقدوري، مُسْتَحِمّا بِفُتورِك أيّتُها الشّفرات،
أنْ أقْتَفِيَ آثارَ حَملَة القُطْن،
ولا عُبورَ مَرَحِ الرّايات و الشُّعَل،
ولا السّباحَةَ تَحتَ عُيونِ زَوارِقَ السّجونِ الفَظيعَة.
------------
As I was going down impassive Rivers,
I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:
Yelping redskins had taken them as targets
And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.
I was indifferent to all crews,
The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons
When with my haulers this uproar stopped
The Rivers let me go where I wanted.
Into the furious lashing of the tides
More heedless than children's brains the other winter
I ran! And loosened Peninsulas
Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub
The storm blessed my sea vigils
Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves
That are called eternal rollers of victims,
Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses!
Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children
The green water penetrated my hull of fir
And washed me of spots of blue wine
And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook
And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;
Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium
And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,
The bitter redness of love ferments!
I know the skies bursting with lightning, and the waterspouts
And the surf and the currents; I know the evening,
And dawn as exalted as a flock of doves
And at times I have seen what man thought he saw!
I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors,
Lighting up, with long violet clots,
Resembling actors of very ancient dramas,
The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters!
I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows
A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea,
The circulation of unknown saps,
And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!
I followed during pregnant months the swell,
Like hysterical cows, in its assault on the reefs,
Without dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
Could constrain the snout of the wheezing Oceans!
I struck against, you know, unbelievable Floridas
Mingling with flowers panthers' eyes and human
Skin! Rainbows stretched like bridal reins
Under the horizon of the seas to greenish herds!
I have seen enormous swamps ferment, fish-traps
Where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!
Avalanches of water in the midst of a calm,
And the distances cataracting toward the abyss!
Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers!
Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs
Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs
Fall down from gnarled trees with black scent!
I should have liked to show children those sunfish
Of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish.
—Foam of flowers rocked my drifting
And ineffable winds winged me at times.
At times a martyr weary of poles and zones,
The sea, whose sob created my gentle roll,
Brought up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers
And I remained, like a woman on her knees...
Resembling an island tossing on my sides the quarrels
And droppings of noisy birds with yellow eyes
And I sailed on, when through my fragile ropes
Drowned men sank backward to sleep!
Now I, a boat lost in the foliage of caves,
Thrown by the storm into the birdless air
I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been rescued
By the Monitors and the Hanseatic sailboats;
Free, smoking, topped with violet fog,
I who pierced the reddening sky like a wall,
Bearing, delicious jam for good poets
Lichens of sunlight and mucus of azure,
Who ran, spotted with small electric moons,
A wild plank, escorted by black seahorses,
When Julys beat down with blows of cudgels
The ultramarine skies with burning funnels;
I, who trembled, hearing at fifty leagues off
The moaning of the Behemoths in heat and the thick Maelstroms,
Eternal spinner of the blue immobility
I miss Europe with its ancient parapets!
I have seen sidereal archipelagos! and islands
Whose delirious skies are open to the sea-wanderer:
—Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep and exile yourself,
Million golden birds, o future Vigor? –
But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!
If I want a water of Europe, it is the black
Cold puddle where in the sweet-smelling twilight
A squatting child full of sadness releases
A boat as fragile as a May butterfly.
No longer can I, bathed in your languor, o waves,
Follow in the wake of the cotton boats,
Nor cross through the pride of flags and flames,
Nor swim under the terrible eyes of prison ships.
تعطينا فكرة واضحة عن قدرتنا المتخاذلة في الترجمة
!
وتظل القارب السكران واحدة من أفضل وأعمق القطع الشعرية في كل العصور
--------
حينَما كُنْتُ نازِلاً في الأَنهارِ السّاكِنَة،
لَمْ أَعُدْ أَسْتَشْعِرُني مُنْقادًا بِصَخَبِ المَلاّحين،
حُمْرُ الجُلود مُصَيّحون، قَدْ اتّخَذوهُم أَهْدافا،
وسَمّروهُمْ عُراةً على الصّواري المُلَوّنَة.
***
لَقد كُنْتُ غَيْرَ مُبالٍ بِجميعِ الطّاقَم،
حمّالٌ لِلْقَمْحِ "الفْلاماني" أو لِلْقُطْنِ الإنْجليزي،
حينَ انْتَهَتْ مَعَ صَخَبِ المَلاّحينَ هَذه الضّوْضاء،
تَرَكَتْني الأَنْهارُ أَنْ أَنْزِلَ حَيْثُما أَشاء.
***
في بَقْبَقاتِ المَرِيّاتِ الحانِقَة،
أَنا، الشّتاء الآخَر كُنْتُ أَكثَر طَرَشًا مِن أَدْمِغَةِ الأَطْفال،
جَرَيْتُ والقارّاتُ المُنْدَفِعَة،
لمْ تَتَحَمّل تَخَبّطاتٍ أَكْثَرَ مِنّي انْتِصارا.
***
لقَدْ بارَكَتِ العاصِفَةُ تَطَلُّعاتي البَحْرِيّة،
وأَكْثَرَ خِفَّةً مِن سَدّادَةِ فِلّين رَقَصْتُ على اليّمّ،
هذا المُسَمّى بِالمُداهِنِ الأَبَديّ للضّحايا،
عَشْر لَيالٍ بِدون حَسْرَة على عَيْنِ الفَوانيسِ البَلْهاء.
***
وكَما هِي أَشَدّ عُذوبَةً على الأَطْفالِ حُموضَة لَحْمَةِ التُّفّاح،
اخْتَرَقَتِ المِياهُ الخَضْراءُ هَيْكَلي الصّنَوْبَري،
ومِنْ بُقَعِ قَيْئٍ وخُمورٍ زَرْقاء،
غَسَلَتْني مُشَتِّتَةً دفّةَ المَرْكَبِ ومَراسيه.
***
ومِنْ وَقْتِها اسْتَحْمَمْتُ في قَصيَدةِ،
البَحْرِ الحَليبيّ، المُنَقّعِ بِالأَفْلاك،
مُفْتَرٍسًا اللاّزَوَرْدَ الأَخْضَرَ، حَيثُ الغَطَسُ المُمْتَقِع،
وحَيْثُ مُبْتَهِجًا، غَريقٌ مُتَفَكِّرٌ يَنْزِلُ أَحْيانًا.
***
حَيثُ صابِغًا للزُّرُقاتِ فَجْأَةً، هَذياناتٌ،
وإيقاعاتٌ بَطيئَة تَحْتَ لَمَعاناتِ الصّباح،
أكْثَرَ قُوّةً مِنَ الكُحولِ وأَكْثَرَ رَحابَةً مِنْ مَزاهِرِنا،
تَخْتَمِرُ صُهْبَةُ الحُبِّ المَريرَة !
***
أعْرِفُ السَماواتِ المُتَصَدِّعَةَ باِلبُروق، وأعْمِدَةِ الماء،
واصْطِداماتِ الأَمْواجِ بِالحَواجِزِ والتّيارات، أَعْرِفُ المَساء،
والفَجْرَ المُتَحَمِّس كَشَعْبٍ مِنَ اليَمام،
ورَأَيْتُ في بَعْضِ الأَحْيانِ، ما اعْتَقَدَ المَرْءُ رُؤْيَتَه !
***
رَأَيْتُ الشّمْسَ في المُنْحَدَرِ مُلَطّخَةً بِفظاعاتٍ روحانِيّة،
مُزَيِّنَةً باِلأنْوارِ لِنِثاراتٍ بَنَفْسَجِيّة طَويلَة،
ومِثْل مُمَثِّلين لِمآسي جِدّ عَتيقَة،
كانَتْ كُثَلُ المَوْجِ تَسوقُ إلى البَعيدِ اِرْتِعاشاتُ مَصارِعِها !
***
حَلمْتُ اللّيْلَةَ خَضْراءَ بِثُلوجٍ مُبْهِرَة،
بالقُبْلَةِ صاعِدَةً إلى عُيونِ البِحارِ، بِتَثاقُلات،
بِسَريانِ النّسُغِ الخارِقَة لِعادَةِ السّمْع،
وباليَقَظَةِ الصّفْراءَ والزّرْقاءَ لِلْفُسفوراتِ المُغَنّيَة !
***
ولقَدْ تَتَبّعْتُ أَشْهُرًا بِكامِلِها، أَشْبَهَ بِمَرابي البَقَر،
الهِسْتيرِيّة، الأَمْواجَ الصّاخِبَةَ وهيَ تَنْقَضُّ على حَشَفَةِ الصُّخور،
ولمْ يَخْطُر بِبالي بِأَنّ أَقْدامَ "المَرْيَمات" المُشِعّة،
بِقادِرَة على قَهْرِ مِشْفَر المُحيطاتِ اللاّهِثَة !
***
ولَقَد اِصْطَدَمْتُ، لَوْ تَعلَمون، ب"فْلوريدات" عَجيبَة،
مازِجَةً بالزّهورِ عُيونَ فُهودٍ ذاتَ جُلودٍ،
بَشَرِيّة ! أقْواسُ قُزَحٍ مَشْدودَة مِثلَ أعِنّة،
تَحْتَ أُفُقِ البِحارِ،إلى قِطْعانٍ خَضْراء !
***
ولقَدْ رَأَيْتُ اِخْتِمارَ"مارياتٍ" ضَخْمَة، شِباك،
حَيْثُ يَتَعَفّنُ في أَغْصانِ الأَسَلِ وَحْشًا هائِلا بِكامِلِه !
انْهِياراتٌ مائِيَةٌ في وَسَطِ بِحارٍ هادِئَة،
والبَعيدَة مِنْها، نَحْوَ دَرَكاتٍ شَلاّلِيَة !
***
قِبَبٌ جَليد، شُموسٌ مِنْ فِضّة، كُثَلُ أَمْواجٍ صَدَفِيّة،
وسَماواتٌ مِن جَمْر !]
اِنْجِرافٌ شَنيعٌ في أَعْماقِ الخِلْجانِ السّمْراء،
حَيْث الحَيّاتُ العِمْلاقَة، مُفْتَرَسَةً بِالبّقّ،
تَساقَطُ مِنْ أَشْجارٍ مَلْوِيّةٍ مَعَ عُطورٍ سَوْداء !
***
كُنْتُ أَوَدُّ أَن أورِيَ لِلأَطْفالِ هَذه "الدّورادات"،
مِنَ اليَمِّ الأَزْرَقِ، هَذه الأسْماكُ الذَّهَبِيّةُ، هَذِه المُغَنِّية،
- رَغوَةُ الوُرودِ قد هَدْهَدَت اِنْجِرافاتي،
ورياحٌ فائِقَةٌ لِلْوَصْفِ قَد جَنّحَتْني لِلَحَظات.
***
أَحْيانًا كَشهيدٍ، مُتْعَبٍ مِنَ الأَقْطابِ والمَناطِق،
البَحْرُ الذي مِنْ نَحيبِهِ كان يَجْعَلُ لي تَهَدْهُدي الوَديع،
تَصاعَدُ مِنْهُ نَحوي وُرودُ ظِلالٍ ذاتَ مَصّاصاتٍ صَفْراء،
وكُنْتُ أَظَلُّ كَذلِكَ كامْرَأَةٍ على رُكْبَتَيْها ...
***
شِبْه جَزيرَةٍ مُتقاذِفَةً لِلْخُصوماتِ على شُطوطي،
وذُرقُ الطّيورِ المُزّعّقَة ذات العُيونِ الشّقْراء،
وكُنْتُ مُبْحِرًا، حينَ عَبْرَ رِباطاتي الواهِيَة،
غَرْقى نَزَلوا لِلنَّوْمِ، مُتَراجِعينَ إلى الوَراء !...
***
لكِنّي أنا، مَرْكَبٌ مَفْقودٌ تَحتَ شَعَرِ عُرى سِلالِ صَيْدٍ عَتيقَة،
مَقْذوفًا بِالإعْصارِ في أثيرِ لا طَيْرَ فيه،
أنا، بِكِلتَيْهما "المونيتورات" وسُفُنُ "الهانْزْ" الشّراعِيّة،
لَم تَكُن لِتَنْتَشِلَ الهَيْكَلَ السّكْرانَ بِالماء.
***
حُرّا، مُدَخِّنًا، تَعْلوني ضَباباتٌ أُرْجُوانِيّة كَثيفَة،
أنا مَنْ كان يَثْقُبُ السّماءَ المُحْمَرّة مِثلَ جِدار،
مَنْ يَحْمِلُ مُرَبّى شهي للشّعَراء المُحْسِنين،
طَحْلَبُ الشّمْسِ ومَخاطاتُ اللاّزَوَرْد.
***
مَن كانَ يَعْدو، مُلَطّخا بِأَهِلّة كَهْرُبائِيّة،
خَشَبَةً مَجْنونَةً، تُواكِبُها حُصُن البَحْرِ السّوْداء،
حينَما كانَتْ "التّمّوزات" تُجَرِّفُ بِضَرباتِ الدّبابيس،
السَماوات الما وَراءَ بَحْرِيّة ذات القُموعِ المُتَأَجِّجَة.
***
أنا الذي كانَ يَرْتَعِدُ، حاسًّا، على خَمْسينَ فَرْسَخًا، بِنَحيبِ،
تَناسُلِ "البهيموتاتِ" البَحْرِيّة والزّوابِعَ الكَثيفَةَ، الجّبّارة،
وكغازِلٍ أَبَدِيّ للسّكونِ الأِزْرَق،
أتَحَسّرُ على أوربا ذات الحَواجِزَ القَديمَة !
***
رَأَيْتُ أرْخَبيلاتٍ كَوْكَبِيّة ! وجُزُر،
ذات سَماواتٍ هاذِيَة مَفْتوحَةً لِلْمُبْحِر،
- أ في هذه اللّيالي بِلا عُمْقٍ تَنامُ وتَتَغَرّب،
يا مليونَ طائِرٍ ذَهَبِيّ، ويا أيّتُها الشِّدّةُ المُسْتَقبَلِيّة؟
***
لكِنّي، حَقيقَةً، بَكَيْتُ كَثيرًا ! والأَسْحارُ كانَت مُؤْسِفَة،
كُلّ قَمَرٍ بَشِع وكُلّ شَمْسٍ مُرّة:
الحُبُّ الشّرِس قد مَلأَني بِخُدْرَةٍ مُسْكِرَة،
آه على حَيْزومي فَلْيَنْفَجِر ! ولأَمْضِيَنّ إلى البَحْر !
***
إذا كُنْتُ أَرْغَبُ في ماءِ أوربا فَفي بُحْرَةِ ماءٍ،
أسَوَد وبارِد حَيْث نَحْوَ الغَسقِ المُحَنّط،
طِفْلٌ مُتَرَبّعٌ، مَمْلوءٌ بالحُزْن، يُسَرِّحُ،
مَرْكَبًا هَشّا شَبيهًا بِفَراشَة أيار.
***
لم يَعُد بِمَقدوري، مُسْتَحِمّا بِفُتورِك أيّتُها الشّفرات،
أنْ أقْتَفِيَ آثارَ حَملَة القُطْن،
ولا عُبورَ مَرَحِ الرّايات و الشُّعَل،
ولا السّباحَةَ تَحتَ عُيونِ زَوارِقَ السّجونِ الفَظيعَة.
------------
As I was going down impassive Rivers,
I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:
Yelping redskins had taken them as targets
And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.
I was indifferent to all crews,
The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons
When with my haulers this uproar stopped
The Rivers let me go where I wanted.
Into the furious lashing of the tides
More heedless than children's brains the other winter
I ran! And loosened Peninsulas
Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub
The storm blessed my sea vigils
Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves
That are called eternal rollers of victims,
Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses!
Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children
The green water penetrated my hull of fir
And washed me of spots of blue wine
And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook
And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;
Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium
And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,
The bitter redness of love ferments!
I know the skies bursting with lightning, and the waterspouts
And the surf and the currents; I know the evening,
And dawn as exalted as a flock of doves
And at times I have seen what man thought he saw!
I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors,
Lighting up, with long violet clots,
Resembling actors of very ancient dramas,
The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters!
I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows
A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea,
The circulation of unknown saps,
And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!
I followed during pregnant months the swell,
Like hysterical cows, in its assault on the reefs,
Without dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
Could constrain the snout of the wheezing Oceans!
I struck against, you know, unbelievable Floridas
Mingling with flowers panthers' eyes and human
Skin! Rainbows stretched like bridal reins
Under the horizon of the seas to greenish herds!
I have seen enormous swamps ferment, fish-traps
Where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!
Avalanches of water in the midst of a calm,
And the distances cataracting toward the abyss!
Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers!
Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs
Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs
Fall down from gnarled trees with black scent!
I should have liked to show children those sunfish
Of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish.
—Foam of flowers rocked my drifting
And ineffable winds winged me at times.
At times a martyr weary of poles and zones,
The sea, whose sob created my gentle roll,
Brought up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers
And I remained, like a woman on her knees...
Resembling an island tossing on my sides the quarrels
And droppings of noisy birds with yellow eyes
And I sailed on, when through my fragile ropes
Drowned men sank backward to sleep!
Now I, a boat lost in the foliage of caves,
Thrown by the storm into the birdless air
I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been rescued
By the Monitors and the Hanseatic sailboats;
Free, smoking, topped with violet fog,
I who pierced the reddening sky like a wall,
Bearing, delicious jam for good poets
Lichens of sunlight and mucus of azure,
Who ran, spotted with small electric moons,
A wild plank, escorted by black seahorses,
When Julys beat down with blows of cudgels
The ultramarine skies with burning funnels;
I, who trembled, hearing at fifty leagues off
The moaning of the Behemoths in heat and the thick Maelstroms,
Eternal spinner of the blue immobility
I miss Europe with its ancient parapets!
I have seen sidereal archipelagos! and islands
Whose delirious skies are open to the sea-wanderer:
—Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep and exile yourself,
Million golden birds, o future Vigor? –
But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!
If I want a water of Europe, it is the black
Cold puddle where in the sweet-smelling twilight
A squatting child full of sadness releases
A boat as fragile as a May butterfly.
No longer can I, bathed in your languor, o waves,
Follow in the wake of the cotton boats,
Nor cross through the pride of flags and flames,
Nor swim under the terrible eyes of prison ships.
Read
October 26, 2025J'ai heurté, savez-vous ?
d'incroyables Florides
Mêlant aux fleurs des yeux, de panthères à peaux d'hommes !
Et j'ai vu quelquefois ce que l'homme a cru voir !
J'ai vu des archipels sidéraux ! Et des îles
Dont les cieux délirants sont ouverts au vogueur :
- Est-ce en ces nuits sans fond que tu dors et t'exiles,
Million d'oiseaux d'or, ô future Vigueur ?
Mais, vrai, j'ai trop pleuré ! Les Aubes sont navrantes.
Toute lune est atroce et tout soleil amer :
L'âcre amour m'a gonflé de torpeurs enivrantes.
Ô que ma quille éclate ! Ô que j'aille à la mer !
d'incroyables Florides
Mêlant aux fleurs des yeux, de panthères à peaux d'hommes !
Et j'ai vu quelquefois ce que l'homme a cru voir !
J'ai vu des archipels sidéraux ! Et des îles
Dont les cieux délirants sont ouverts au vogueur :
- Est-ce en ces nuits sans fond que tu dors et t'exiles,
Million d'oiseaux d'or, ô future Vigueur ?
Mais, vrai, j'ai trop pleuré ! Les Aubes sont navrantes.
Toute lune est atroce et tout soleil amer :
L'âcre amour m'a gonflé de torpeurs enivrantes.
Ô que ma quille éclate ! Ô que j'aille à la mer !
January 12, 2023
ای عرش! شمار ما نفرینشدگان در این پایین به حدکفایت رسیده است. من به سهم خود درجمع آنان وقت بسیار تلفکردهام. همهشان را میشناسم. ما همواره یکدیگر را به جا میآوریم و از یکدیگر بیزاریم/ از دفتر فصلی در دوزخ
متن بالا در گزیدهی انتخابی مترجم در این کتاب نیومده. به نظرم شعر رمبو نباید با ترجمه خونده بشه. اما زندگی و سرگذشت جنونآمیزش با هر زبانی قابل مطالعهست و نتیجه فقط حیرت خواهد بود
متن بالا در گزیدهی انتخابی مترجم در این کتاب نیومده. به نظرم شعر رمبو نباید با ترجمه خونده بشه. اما زندگی و سرگذشت جنونآمیزش با هر زبانی قابل مطالعهست و نتیجه فقط حیرت خواهد بود
Read
December 15, 2017Arthur Rimbaud - The Drunken Boat: Poems and letters
July 8, 2018
4.5 magical stars.
On the Translation:
I very much prefer WALLACE FOWLIE's translation of the original. I got to read the French one, and it seems Fowlie captures the feel, in a more artful manner than other translators.
-----
On the Poem:
L'enfant terrible of French poetry revolutionized the whole genre, as they echo his constant search and need "to find a language" His works, thus, display Rimbaud’s urge to authenticate and enforce the poetic capacities, to transcend the orthodox rules. It is exactly why reading him, and specifically, reading this long poem is a premature surreal journey towards fresh visions.
-----
I could quote all the poem, here. But here's a little something:
"But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!"
On the Translation:
I very much prefer WALLACE FOWLIE's translation of the original. I got to read the French one, and it seems Fowlie captures the feel, in a more artful manner than other translators.
-----
On the Poem:
L'enfant terrible of French poetry revolutionized the whole genre, as they echo his constant search and need "to find a language" His works, thus, display Rimbaud’s urge to authenticate and enforce the poetic capacities, to transcend the orthodox rules. It is exactly why reading him, and specifically, reading this long poem is a premature surreal journey towards fresh visions.
-----
I could quote all the poem, here. But here's a little something:
"But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!"
February 9, 2014
It's almost shocking and hard to believe that this 100-line verse poem was written by a dissolute 16 years old boy who sought refuge in a torrid and wild homosexual affair that was spiced by drugs and alcohol. L'enfant terrible Rimbaud did-however-write this breathtaking poem where he deliberately transformed himself into not only an artist but also a seer who aimed at reaching the unknown through a process of total derangement.
This idea of the artist becoming a seer is further stretched or rather, explained in his poem " Le Bateau Ivre" . This somewhat lengthy narrative poem tells the story of a boat that frees itself from whatever it is human upon the sight of its riders being killed by 'Les Peaux-Rouges'( aka, Native Americans). The boat moves on to describe how utterly indifferent it felt about the deplorable situation its haulers were caught up in. It broke free from everything it was once so acquainted with. For ten nights, waves, which were claimed to be murderers, became the dancefloor on which the boat floated. Water penetrated the boat washing it from wine and vomit of its former haulers. Becoming almost personalized, the boat speaks of the evening, the sky, the sun and everything that only humans are known to appreciate. Near the end of the poem, the boat expresses its wish to die; to leave this universe "Ô que ma quille éclate! Ô que j'aille à la mer!".
I believe the boat to be but an allegory for Rimbaud's agitated soul as it tried to alienate itself from trivial matters that the human society occupied itself with. The passionate young poet Rimbaud had nowhere to call home as he was a vagabond dancing on the waves of life. Just like the boat that drifted through the waters, Rimbaud never settled in one place.
If you're free for about 15 minutes, listen to it here, it is totally worth your time : http://listentogenius.com/recordings0...
This idea of the artist becoming a seer is further stretched or rather, explained in his poem " Le Bateau Ivre" . This somewhat lengthy narrative poem tells the story of a boat that frees itself from whatever it is human upon the sight of its riders being killed by 'Les Peaux-Rouges'( aka, Native Americans). The boat moves on to describe how utterly indifferent it felt about the deplorable situation its haulers were caught up in. It broke free from everything it was once so acquainted with. For ten nights, waves, which were claimed to be murderers, became the dancefloor on which the boat floated. Water penetrated the boat washing it from wine and vomit of its former haulers. Becoming almost personalized, the boat speaks of the evening, the sky, the sun and everything that only humans are known to appreciate. Near the end of the poem, the boat expresses its wish to die; to leave this universe "Ô que ma quille éclate! Ô que j'aille à la mer!".
I believe the boat to be but an allegory for Rimbaud's agitated soul as it tried to alienate itself from trivial matters that the human society occupied itself with. The passionate young poet Rimbaud had nowhere to call home as he was a vagabond dancing on the waves of life. Just like the boat that drifted through the waters, Rimbaud never settled in one place.
If you're free for about 15 minutes, listen to it here, it is totally worth your time : http://listentogenius.com/recordings0...
October 18, 2021
"Reading poetry in translation is like showering in a raincoat." - Paterson.
January 1, 2015
Απ' την Ευρώπη αν εγώ, κατ'ειναι που λαχτάρησα, είναι μία
λακουβίτσα
Με μαύρα και κρύα νερά, στο μυρωμένο δειλινό
Οπου γερμένο ένα παιδί με θλίψη περισσή, σαν Μάη
πεταλουδίτσα
Το καραβάκι του άφηνε να πλέει στο νερό.
λακουβίτσα
Με μαύρα και κρύα νερά, στο μυρωμένο δειλινό
Οπου γερμένο ένα παιδί με θλίψη περισσή, σαν Μάη
πεταλουδίτσα
Το καραβάκι του άφηνε να πλέει στο νερό.
March 13, 2014
Δύσκολο πράγμα να μεταφράσεις ποίηση!!!
Και επίσης η ποίηση του Ρεμπώ δεν έχει σχέση με αυτό που θα περίμενα από έναν καταραμένο ποιητή...
Κρατώ απλά το αγαπημένο μου:
Sensation
Par les soirs bleus d’été, j’irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté par les blés, fouler l’herbe menue :
Rêveur, j’en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.
Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien :
Mais l’amour infini me montera dans l’âme,
Et j’irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
Par la Nature, — heureux comme avec une femme.
Arthur Rimbaud, mars 1870
Αίσθηση
Κάποια γαλάζια καλοκαιρινή βραδιά θα βγω στα μονοπάτια,
Χορτάρι αφράτο θα πατώ, θα με κεντούν τα στάχυα:
Κι ονειροπόλος θα αισθανθώ στα πόδια τη δροσιά του
Σαν αφεθώ στον άνεμο να λούζει τα μαλλιά μου.
Έτσι θα μείνω σιωπηλός, με στοχασμό κανένα
Αλλά όταν η αγάπη η άπειρη τότε με πλημμυρίσει
Θα πάω μακριά, πολύ μακριά, σαν το τσιγγάνο πέρα
Ευτυχισμένος θα αισθανθώ σαν με γυναίκα εγώ, παρέα με τη Φύση.
Απόδοση: Κώστας Κοροντζής
Και επίσης η ποίηση του Ρεμπώ δεν έχει σχέση με αυτό που θα περίμενα από έναν καταραμένο ποιητή...
Κρατώ απλά το αγαπημένο μου:
Sensation
Par les soirs bleus d’été, j’irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté par les blés, fouler l’herbe menue :
Rêveur, j’en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.
Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien :
Mais l’amour infini me montera dans l’âme,
Et j’irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
Par la Nature, — heureux comme avec une femme.
Arthur Rimbaud, mars 1870
Αίσθηση
Κάποια γαλάζια καλοκαιρινή βραδιά θα βγω στα μονοπάτια,
Χορτάρι αφράτο θα πατώ, θα με κεντούν τα στάχυα:
Κι ονειροπόλος θα αισθανθώ στα πόδια τη δροσιά του
Σαν αφεθώ στον άνεμο να λούζει τα μαλλιά μου.
Έτσι θα μείνω σιωπηλός, με στοχασμό κανένα
Αλλά όταν η αγάπη η άπειρη τότε με πλημμυρίσει
Θα πάω μακριά, πολύ μακριά, σαν το τσιγγάνο πέρα
Ευτυχισμένος θα αισθανθώ σαν με γυναίκα εγώ, παρέα με τη Φύση.
Απόδοση: Κώστας Κοροντζής
October 3, 2009
"
ای طبیعت
گرم در آغوشش گیر
او سردش است "
ای طبیعت
گرم در آغوشش گیر
او سردش است "
December 14, 2020
رمبو فوق العاس فقط همین ...
January 2, 2025
I’ve now read through this short, yet profoundly dynamic poem a couple times, and I enjoyed it. The image of a personified boat floating rudderlessly through time and space is an excellent metaphor for, as Rimbaud states at the end of stanza 8, “the mirage of humanity”.
I know there are a lot of lens people have filtered this poem through, but for me what was most striking about this poem is not what it could mean, but more so how well Rimbaud (at such a young age) could capture the juxtaposition of life. Life is portrayed in this poem as both beautiful and dangerous, both mundane and violent, and both angelic and obscene. That being said, in this short 25 stanza poem Rimbaud was skillfully able to highlight it all.
Influenced by the likes of Baudelaire and it shows, if you like what good ole Charles was about in his poetic musings, you’ll enjoy this as well.
I know there are a lot of lens people have filtered this poem through, but for me what was most striking about this poem is not what it could mean, but more so how well Rimbaud (at such a young age) could capture the juxtaposition of life. Life is portrayed in this poem as both beautiful and dangerous, both mundane and violent, and both angelic and obscene. That being said, in this short 25 stanza poem Rimbaud was skillfully able to highlight it all.
Influenced by the likes of Baudelaire and it shows, if you like what good ole Charles was about in his poetic musings, you’ll enjoy this as well.
April 22, 2022
«Μα αλήθεια έκλαψα πολύ! Η αυγή με φαρμακώνει.
Η σελήνη πιο φρικτή, κάθε ήλιος πιο πικρός:
Και του στυφού του έρωτα η μέθη με ναρκώνει.
Να σκάσει η καρίνα μου! Στο κύμα να χαθώ.»
Η σελήνη πιο φρικτή, κάθε ήλιος πιο πικρός:
Και του στυφού του έρωτα η μέθη με ναρκώνει.
Να σκάσει η καρίνα μου! Στο κύμα να χαθώ.»
December 18, 2023
fuu, to jsou mi metafory
December 26, 2024
Mi estrofa favorita es la xxiii, sobre todo, "todos los soles son amargos y atroces son las lunas"
July 16, 2020
Et dès lors, je me suis baigné dans le Poème
De la Mer, infusé d’astres, et lactescent,
Dévorant les azurs verts ; où, flottaison blême
Et ravie, un noyé pensif parfois descend ;
Où, teignant tout à coup les bleuités, délires
Et rhythmes lents sous les rutilements du jour,
Plus fortes que l’alcool, plus vastes que nos lyres,
Fermentent les rousseurs amères de l’amour !
Je sais les cieux crevant en éclairs, et les trombes
Et les ressacs et les courants : je sais le soir,
L’Aube exaltée ainsi qu’un peuple de colombes,
Et j’ai vu quelquefois ce que l’homme a cru voir !
De la Mer, infusé d’astres, et lactescent,
Dévorant les azurs verts ; où, flottaison blême
Et ravie, un noyé pensif parfois descend ;
Où, teignant tout à coup les bleuités, délires
Et rhythmes lents sous les rutilements du jour,
Plus fortes que l’alcool, plus vastes que nos lyres,
Fermentent les rousseurs amères de l’amour !
Je sais les cieux crevant en éclairs, et les trombes
Et les ressacs et les courants : je sais le soir,
L’Aube exaltée ainsi qu’un peuple de colombes,
Et j’ai vu quelquefois ce que l’homme a cru voir !
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 24, 2021
Very prettily written. The last verse felt abrupt, was it really the end?? However the preceding two stanzas were so pretty and it me quite a bit...
I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!
Ah, yes, are you really depressed if you don't write poems about the serenity of death like Rimbaud did in "Ophelia" and "Asleep in the Valley"...
I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!
Ah, yes, are you really depressed if you don't write poems about the serenity of death like Rimbaud did in "Ophelia" and "Asleep in the Valley"...
Read
October 5, 2008شعري بود كه باهاش عشق بازي كردم
اون روز كه اين كتابو خوندم
از شدت لذت
داشتم خفه مي شدم
نمي دونستم چطور اين همه خوشيو تاب بيارم
كم اتفاق ميافته متني اين قدر كامل عالي باشه
مخصوصا متن فرانسويش
اون روز كه اين كتابو خوندم
از شدت لذت
داشتم خفه مي شدم
نمي دونستم چطور اين همه خوشيو تاب بيارم
كم اتفاق ميافته متني اين قدر كامل عالي باشه
مخصوصا متن فرانسويش
May 18, 2020
Quelle description!!! Quel talent!
Ecrit a seulement 17ans! Magnifique👌
Ecrit a seulement 17ans! Magnifique👌
August 7, 2022
در مورد ترجمه نظری نمیتونم بدم ولی خب حاصل چیزی که به فارسی برگردونده شده بود، زیبا و شاعرانه بود و هر جا هم که مترجم، تغییری در متن داده بود، توی پاورقی، ترجمهٔ اصل متن رو هم ذکر کرده بود.
Read
March 2, 2022But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!
August 22, 2022
Toute lune est atroce et tout soleil amer:
L ’ácre amour m’a gonflé de torpeurs enivrantes.
O que ma quille éclate! O que j’aille á la mer!
L ’ácre amour m’a gonflé de torpeurs enivrantes.
O que ma quille éclate! O que j’aille á la mer!
June 10, 2025
مختصر و مفید از رمبو.
اشراق ها رو باید با ترجمه الهی مقایسه کنم بعدا
فصلی در دوزخ رو با ترجمه عباس پژمان
چاپ جدید نشر نو از این کتاب واقعا شکیل و باکیفیته.
اشراق ها رو باید با ترجمه الهی مقایسه کنم بعدا
فصلی در دوزخ رو با ترجمه عباس پژمان
چاپ جدید نشر نو از این کتاب واقعا شکیل و باکیفیته.
Read
October 11, 2021my favorite part of this poem was the expensive cgi tiger
September 19, 2021
Rimbaud being on crack
Anyway my favourite and most famous quote
"Mais, vrai, j’ai trop pleuré! Les aubes sont navrantes."
Anyway my favourite and most famous quote
"Mais, vrai, j’ai trop pleuré! Les aubes sont navrantes."
June 14, 2023
تمام بیت های این شعر لزجه. بهت میچسبه. همه کلمه ها گره خورده توی هم و حس لزجی هم از جماع این کلمه ها به همه جای شعر رخنه کرده. اما وقتی از دور بهش نگاه میکنی و ذهنتو از دیدگاه اولیه خالی میکنی، همهچیز زیر لحاف مخفی میشه، هیچ معاشقی پیدا نیست.
زورق مست از زیباترین شعرهایه که خوندم.
زورق مست از زیباترین شعرهایه که خوندم.
May 14, 2019
Comencé a leer “El Barco ebrio” a principios de febrero y lo termine hacia finales de abril. No obstante, hasta este momento no me sentía en la capacidad de escribir una reseña sobre, indudablemente, una de las gemas más increíbles que le ha dado la poesía francesa a la literatura universal.
¿Por dónde puedo comenzar? Tal vez por mi experiencia de lectura. No lo niego, ha sido difícil. Leer, releer, rayar, comentar no una vez, ni dos veces, sino varias hasta poder comprender la genialidad que hay en cada verso. Es un proceso agotador, pero también brinda una sensación de plenitud cuando comienzas a entender toda la locura creativa.
Rimbaud obliga al lector a ser activo. Ser un lector que, de cierta manera, se debe sumergir en lo más hondo para captar la violencia de las imágenes y del sonido, el desdibujamiento de los límites de las formas, la sinestesia y el desarreglo de los sentido, que no son producto del azar sino de algo regurso; el lector debe ahogarse en el poema para que, al igual que el barco, logre entender la tormenta de la libertad.
Este poema le exige al lector dejar al lado su racionalidad y comenzar a pensar analógicamente que esta estrechamente relacionada con una lógica poética de propio universo. Entender esto y hacerlo es muy difícil pero cuando se logra llegar es…
Rimbaud se revela contra el lugar imagen de las comunes y funde lo deforme con lo dionisíaco para llevar el límite lo que Hugo Friedrich denomina en su libro “Estructura de la lírica Moderna” como el poder La Imaginación Creadora.
Y aunque todo esto ya es abrumador, Rimbaud sigue embistiendo al lector al dejar en poema ciertas semillas que reflejan la poética de las "Cartas del vidente”: El yo es otro, a través de la despersonalización del ser por medio del barco; el desarreglo de los sentidos, por medio de la evolución sensorial de las imágenes y el sentido: aparece la textura, el sabor e incluso el olor; la total desconexión con lo clásico, gracias a la parodia de figuras míticas como Prometeo, el Leviatán y tras figuras; hasta finalmente llegar a la imposibilidad de lo desconocido por lo vacuo que es el viaje del barco.
Todo esto puede abrumar al lector que jamás se ha acercado a Rimbaud pero, aunque suena paradójico, la lectura del Barco ebrio como primer contacto con la obra de aquel francés que ni siquiera conocía el mar cuando comenzó a escribirlo es la mejor forma de empezar, dado a que en este está toda la síntesis de su obra. Y aunque en una primera lectura se entienda muy poco, o incluso nada, eso jamás será un delito para el lector. Al final sólo queda seguir intentando.
¿Por dónde puedo comenzar? Tal vez por mi experiencia de lectura. No lo niego, ha sido difícil. Leer, releer, rayar, comentar no una vez, ni dos veces, sino varias hasta poder comprender la genialidad que hay en cada verso. Es un proceso agotador, pero también brinda una sensación de plenitud cuando comienzas a entender toda la locura creativa.
Rimbaud obliga al lector a ser activo. Ser un lector que, de cierta manera, se debe sumergir en lo más hondo para captar la violencia de las imágenes y del sonido, el desdibujamiento de los límites de las formas, la sinestesia y el desarreglo de los sentido, que no son producto del azar sino de algo regurso; el lector debe ahogarse en el poema para que, al igual que el barco, logre entender la tormenta de la libertad.
Este poema le exige al lector dejar al lado su racionalidad y comenzar a pensar analógicamente que esta estrechamente relacionada con una lógica poética de propio universo. Entender esto y hacerlo es muy difícil pero cuando se logra llegar es…
Rimbaud se revela contra el lugar imagen de las comunes y funde lo deforme con lo dionisíaco para llevar el límite lo que Hugo Friedrich denomina en su libro “Estructura de la lírica Moderna” como el poder La Imaginación Creadora.
Y aunque todo esto ya es abrumador, Rimbaud sigue embistiendo al lector al dejar en poema ciertas semillas que reflejan la poética de las "Cartas del vidente”: El yo es otro, a través de la despersonalización del ser por medio del barco; el desarreglo de los sentidos, por medio de la evolución sensorial de las imágenes y el sentido: aparece la textura, el sabor e incluso el olor; la total desconexión con lo clásico, gracias a la parodia de figuras míticas como Prometeo, el Leviatán y tras figuras; hasta finalmente llegar a la imposibilidad de lo desconocido por lo vacuo que es el viaje del barco.
Todo esto puede abrumar al lector que jamás se ha acercado a Rimbaud pero, aunque suena paradójico, la lectura del Barco ebrio como primer contacto con la obra de aquel francés que ni siquiera conocía el mar cuando comenzó a escribirlo es la mejor forma de empezar, dado a que en este está toda la síntesis de su obra. Y aunque en una primera lectura se entienda muy poco, o incluso nada, eso jamás será un delito para el lector. Al final sólo queda seguir intentando.
August 30, 2025
Le Bateau ivre (The Drunken Boat) is one of those poems that doesn’t so much sit on the page as it explodes, spilling images, sensations, and visions into the reader’s mind until you’re not entirely sure whether you’ve been reading a poem or hallucinating with Rimbaud himself.
Written when he was just sixteen — an age when most of us are fumbling around with adolescent angst or trying to impress classmates — Rimbaud was already torching the boundaries of poetry, pushing language into a fever-dream register where the sea becomes not just water but consciousness itself, intoxicated and unmoored.
The poem is Rimbaud’s manifesto, his great burst of self-creation, a declaration that poetry should be as vivid, as reckless, and as ecstatic as the human spirit unchained.
The conceit of Le Bateau Ivre is deceptively simple: the speaker is a boat that has been set adrift, abandoned by its crew, and is swept along by wild waters into unimaginable realms. But of course, the poem is not about boats, not really. It’s about liberation — of language, of self, of vision.
The boat is Rimbaud, or the poet, or the poetic spirit itself, no longer tethered by rules or tradition, free to wander, to collide with experiences vast and terrifying. The opening lines already crash us into this vision: the boat, cut loose, revels in its release, plunging into rapids and whirlpools, battered yet exhilarated. In this way, Rimbaud takes what could have been a mere metaphor and imbues it with the full intoxication of youth, revolt, and imagination.
What makes the poem dazzling is the sheer range of imagery. Rimbaud doesn’t simply describe the sea — he conjures myth, apocalypse, the cosmic and the microscopic in one breathless sweep. There are scenes of “green nights with dazzling snow”, “flaming sunsets”, “archipelagos of stars”, corpses floating in the waves, monstrous visions, and hallucinatory lights. The poem is painterly yet musical, and though it is in French, its soundscapes still hit in translation, carrying the pulse of rhythm and the dizzying rush of cadence. One can almost feel Rimbaud daring the reader: can you keep up with me? Can you let go of reason and sail on these wild currents of language?
But beyond the spectacle lies the undertow of despair. The boat may rejoice in its freedom, but it also acknowledges ruin. It becomes a kind of exile, unable to return to the calm harbours of human society.
There is a loneliness in the vision, a recognition that freedom without anchorage may mean dissolution. This duality makes the poem more than a teenage hallucination — it becomes a prophecy of Rimbaud’s own life, his meteoric rise and abrupt abandonment of poetry at twenty. In Le Bateau Ivre we already glimpse that trajectory: the ecstatic energy that cannot sustain itself forever, the blaze that burns too hot.
Placed in the broader arc of poetry, Le Bateau ivre marks a fracture point. It inherits the grandeur of Romanticism — its love of nature, its hunger for the sublime, its vast imagery — but it twists that inheritance into something fractured, kaleidoscopic, modern. If Wordsworth found transcendence in tranquil recollection, Rimbaud finds it in frenzy.
If Baudelaire, his immediate predecessor, turned Parisian streets into infernal symphonies, Rimbaud turns the sea into a dreamscape of prophetic delirium. He is, in this sense, the true precursor of Surrealism, of Symbolism, of every avant-garde movement that sought to dismantle order and plunge headlong into the subconscious.
Modern poets and even contemporary songwriters still bear Rimbaud’s imprint. Think of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl — its breathless cascades of imagery, its intoxicated rhythms, its attempt to map the chaos of modernity.
Think of Bob Dylan, who openly cited Rimbaud as a formative influence, weaving dense, surreal imagery into his lyrics. Or Patti Smith, who called Rimbaud her “boy,” building her own punk-poetic persona upon his youthful rebellion. Even today, the idea that poetry should not just describe but overwhelm, intoxicate, and liberate owes a debt to Le Bateau ivre.
And yet, the poem also has something deeply personal that makes it resonate across time. Who hasn’t, in youth or in some moment of crisis, felt like that boat — cut loose, swept away, dazzled by visions, terrified of ruin, yearning for meaning in a world of chaos?
The poem captures the heady cocktail of desire and despair, rebellion and fatigue, that defines both adolescence and artistic ambition. In that sense, reading Le Bateau ivre isn’t just about admiring Rimbaud’s genius; it’s about recognising a piece of ourselves, that part which longs to cast off the moorings and plunge into uncharted waters, whatever the cost.
It’s worth remembering too that Le Bateau ivre wasn’t some random exercise. Rimbaud wrote it as a kind of offering, almost a provocation, to Paul Verlaine and the Parisian literary circle he wanted to break into.
That makes the poem both intensely personal and cunningly performative: a young provincial boy declaring, “Look what I can do — look how I can outdo you all.” And he did. The poem is not just a vision; it is an entrance, a cannon shot announcing that poetry could be something radically different.
Reading it today, whether in French or translation, one cannot escape its vitality. Even stripped of the nuances of French, the poem’s images and cadence still feel alive, still intoxicate. That’s perhaps the greatest testament to Rimbaud: that a sixteen-year-old could write something that, more than a century later, feels not just fresh but almost futuristic, like a language still arriving.
Le Bateau Ivre is not an easy poem; it is not meant to be. It resists summary, resists order. It is meant to be experienced, to wash over the reader like the waves it describes. But that is its genius. It is poetry as immersion, poetry as delirium, poetry as rebellion. To read it is to drink, to drift, to be dazzled, and perhaps to drown a little.
And maybe that drowning is the point: to lose yourself in order to glimpse something beyond the ordinary.
In the end, Rimbaud’s drunken boat is not just a metaphor for his own art, but for what poetry at its wildest can be — an intoxicated vessel carrying us beyond reason, beyond tradition, into the vast and terrifying beauty of the unknown.
Written when he was just sixteen — an age when most of us are fumbling around with adolescent angst or trying to impress classmates — Rimbaud was already torching the boundaries of poetry, pushing language into a fever-dream register where the sea becomes not just water but consciousness itself, intoxicated and unmoored.
The poem is Rimbaud’s manifesto, his great burst of self-creation, a declaration that poetry should be as vivid, as reckless, and as ecstatic as the human spirit unchained.
The conceit of Le Bateau Ivre is deceptively simple: the speaker is a boat that has been set adrift, abandoned by its crew, and is swept along by wild waters into unimaginable realms. But of course, the poem is not about boats, not really. It’s about liberation — of language, of self, of vision.
The boat is Rimbaud, or the poet, or the poetic spirit itself, no longer tethered by rules or tradition, free to wander, to collide with experiences vast and terrifying. The opening lines already crash us into this vision: the boat, cut loose, revels in its release, plunging into rapids and whirlpools, battered yet exhilarated. In this way, Rimbaud takes what could have been a mere metaphor and imbues it with the full intoxication of youth, revolt, and imagination.
What makes the poem dazzling is the sheer range of imagery. Rimbaud doesn’t simply describe the sea — he conjures myth, apocalypse, the cosmic and the microscopic in one breathless sweep. There are scenes of “green nights with dazzling snow”, “flaming sunsets”, “archipelagos of stars”, corpses floating in the waves, monstrous visions, and hallucinatory lights. The poem is painterly yet musical, and though it is in French, its soundscapes still hit in translation, carrying the pulse of rhythm and the dizzying rush of cadence. One can almost feel Rimbaud daring the reader: can you keep up with me? Can you let go of reason and sail on these wild currents of language?
But beyond the spectacle lies the undertow of despair. The boat may rejoice in its freedom, but it also acknowledges ruin. It becomes a kind of exile, unable to return to the calm harbours of human society.
There is a loneliness in the vision, a recognition that freedom without anchorage may mean dissolution. This duality makes the poem more than a teenage hallucination — it becomes a prophecy of Rimbaud’s own life, his meteoric rise and abrupt abandonment of poetry at twenty. In Le Bateau Ivre we already glimpse that trajectory: the ecstatic energy that cannot sustain itself forever, the blaze that burns too hot.
Placed in the broader arc of poetry, Le Bateau ivre marks a fracture point. It inherits the grandeur of Romanticism — its love of nature, its hunger for the sublime, its vast imagery — but it twists that inheritance into something fractured, kaleidoscopic, modern. If Wordsworth found transcendence in tranquil recollection, Rimbaud finds it in frenzy.
If Baudelaire, his immediate predecessor, turned Parisian streets into infernal symphonies, Rimbaud turns the sea into a dreamscape of prophetic delirium. He is, in this sense, the true precursor of Surrealism, of Symbolism, of every avant-garde movement that sought to dismantle order and plunge headlong into the subconscious.
Modern poets and even contemporary songwriters still bear Rimbaud’s imprint. Think of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl — its breathless cascades of imagery, its intoxicated rhythms, its attempt to map the chaos of modernity.
Think of Bob Dylan, who openly cited Rimbaud as a formative influence, weaving dense, surreal imagery into his lyrics. Or Patti Smith, who called Rimbaud her “boy,” building her own punk-poetic persona upon his youthful rebellion. Even today, the idea that poetry should not just describe but overwhelm, intoxicate, and liberate owes a debt to Le Bateau ivre.
And yet, the poem also has something deeply personal that makes it resonate across time. Who hasn’t, in youth or in some moment of crisis, felt like that boat — cut loose, swept away, dazzled by visions, terrified of ruin, yearning for meaning in a world of chaos?
The poem captures the heady cocktail of desire and despair, rebellion and fatigue, that defines both adolescence and artistic ambition. In that sense, reading Le Bateau ivre isn’t just about admiring Rimbaud’s genius; it’s about recognising a piece of ourselves, that part which longs to cast off the moorings and plunge into uncharted waters, whatever the cost.
It’s worth remembering too that Le Bateau ivre wasn’t some random exercise. Rimbaud wrote it as a kind of offering, almost a provocation, to Paul Verlaine and the Parisian literary circle he wanted to break into.
That makes the poem both intensely personal and cunningly performative: a young provincial boy declaring, “Look what I can do — look how I can outdo you all.” And he did. The poem is not just a vision; it is an entrance, a cannon shot announcing that poetry could be something radically different.
Reading it today, whether in French or translation, one cannot escape its vitality. Even stripped of the nuances of French, the poem’s images and cadence still feel alive, still intoxicate. That’s perhaps the greatest testament to Rimbaud: that a sixteen-year-old could write something that, more than a century later, feels not just fresh but almost futuristic, like a language still arriving.
Le Bateau Ivre is not an easy poem; it is not meant to be. It resists summary, resists order. It is meant to be experienced, to wash over the reader like the waves it describes. But that is its genius. It is poetry as immersion, poetry as delirium, poetry as rebellion. To read it is to drink, to drift, to be dazzled, and perhaps to drown a little.
And maybe that drowning is the point: to lose yourself in order to glimpse something beyond the ordinary.
In the end, Rimbaud’s drunken boat is not just a metaphor for his own art, but for what poetry at its wildest can be — an intoxicated vessel carrying us beyond reason, beyond tradition, into the vast and terrifying beauty of the unknown.
August 13, 2016
3.7
Η αλήθεια είναι ότι περίμενα να ενθουσιαστώ πολύ περισσότερο με αυτό το βιβλίο. Αυτό βέβαια δεν σημαίνει ότι δεν μου αρέσει. Ίσως φταίει και η ηλικία μου που δεν με ενθουσίασε τόσο πολύ αυτό το βιβλίο. Βρήκα ενδιαφέρον τον τρόπο γραφής του Ρεμπώ και πραγματικά κάποια από τα ποιήματα του μου άρεσαν πάρα πολύ. Η δίγλωσση έκδοση με βοήθησα να κατανοήσω κάποια νοήματα που αποτυπώνονται καλύτερα στα γαλλικά.
Τα ποιήματα που ξεχώρισα ήταν:
1) Οφήλια
2) Αίσθηση
3)Βασιλεία
4)Η αυγή
" Κει που τελειώνει ο δρόμος, σιμά σ' έναν δαφνώνα, την αγκάλιασα επιτέλους μ' όλους μαζί τους πέπλους κι ένιωσα μια στιγμούλα επάνω μου το απέραντο κορμί της.
Ύστερα, κυλιστήκανε μαζί. Αυγή και αγόρι, στα ριζά του δάσους, χάμου.
Όταν ξύπνησα ήταν μεσημέρι. "
Η αλήθεια είναι ότι περίμενα να ενθουσιαστώ πολύ περισσότερο με αυτό το βιβλίο. Αυτό βέβαια δεν σημαίνει ότι δεν μου αρέσει. Ίσως φταίει και η ηλικία μου που δεν με ενθουσίασε τόσο πολύ αυτό το βιβλίο. Βρήκα ενδιαφέρον τον τρόπο γραφής του Ρεμπώ και πραγματικά κάποια από τα ποιήματα του μου άρεσαν πάρα πολύ. Η δίγλωσση έκδοση με βοήθησα να κατανοήσω κάποια νοήματα που αποτυπώνονται καλύτερα στα γαλλικά.
Τα ποιήματα που ξεχώρισα ήταν:
1) Οφήλια
2) Αίσθηση
3)Βασιλεία
4)Η αυγή
" Κει που τελειώνει ο δρόμος, σιμά σ' έναν δαφνώνα, την αγκάλιασα επιτέλους μ' όλους μαζί τους πέπλους κι ένιωσα μια στιγμούλα επάνω μου το απέραντο κορμί της.
Ύστερα, κυλιστήκανε μαζί. Αυγή και αγόρι, στα ριζά του δάσους, χάμου.
Όταν ξύπνησα ήταν μεσημέρι. "
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