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Arthur Rimbaud - Le bateau ivreLe bateau ivre

Poet: Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)Volume: Le bateau ivreYear: 1871

Comme je descandais des Fleuves impassibles, Je ne me sentis plus guidé par les haleurs: Des Peaux-Rouges criards les avaient pris pour cibles, Les ayant cloués nus aux poteaux de couleurs.

J'étais insoucieux de tous les équipages, Porteur de blés flamands ou de cotons anglais. Quand avec mes haleurs ont fini ces tapages, Les Fleuves m'ont laissé descendre où je voulais.

Dans les clapotements furieux des marées, Moi, l'autre hiver, plus sourd que les cerveaux d'enfants, Je courus! Et les Péninsules démarrées N'ont pas subi tohu-bohus plus triomphants.

La tempête a béni mes éveils maritimes. Plus léger qu'un bouchon j'ai dansé sur les flots Qu'on appelle rouleurs éternels de victimes, Dix nuits, sans regretter l'úil niais des falots!

Plus douce qu'aux enfants la chair des pommes sures, L'eau verte pénétra ma coque de sapin Et des taches de vins bleus et des vomissures Me lava, dispersant gouvernail et grappin.

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, 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!

J'ai vu le soleil bas, taché d'horreurs mystiques, illuminant de longs figements violets, Pareils à des acteurs de drames trés-antiques Les flots roulant au loin leurs frissons de volets!

J'ai rêvé la nuit verte aux neiges éblouies, Baiser montant aux yeux des mers avec lenteurs, La circulation des sèves inouïes, Et l'éveil jaune et bleu des phosphores chanteurs!

J'ai suivi, des mois pleins, pareille aux vacheries

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Hystériques, la houle à l'assaut des récifs, Sans songer que les pieds lumineux des Maries Pussent forcer le mufle aux Océans poussifs!

J'ai heurté, savez-vous, d'incroyables Florides Mélant aux fleurs des yeux de panthéres à peaux D'hommes! Des arcs-en-ciel tendus comme des brides Sous l'horizon des mers, à de glauques troupeaux!

J'ai vu fermenter les marais énormes, nasses Où pourrit dans les joncs tout un Léviathan! Des écroulements d'eaux au milieu des bonaces, Et les lointains vers les gouffres cataractant!

Glaciers, soleils d'argent, flots nacreux, cieux de braises! Echouages hideux au fond des golfes bruns Où les serpents géants dévorés des punaises Choient, des arbres tordus, avec de noirs parfums!

J'aurais voulu montrer aux enfants ces dorades Du flot bleu, ces poissons d'or, ces poissoins chantants. - Des écumes de fleurs ont bercé mes dérades Et d'ineffables vents m'ont ailé par instants.

Parfois, martyr lassé des pôles et des zones, La mer dont le sanglot faisait mon roulis doux Montaint vers moi ses fleurs d'ombre aux ventouses jaunes Et je restais, ainsi qu'une femme à genoux...

Presque île, ballottant sur mes bords les querelles Et les fients d'oiseux clabaudeurs aux yeux blonds. Et je voguais, lorsqu'à travers mes liens fréles Des noyés descendaient dormir, à reculons!...

Or moi, bateau perdu sous les cheveux des anses, Jeté par l'ouragan dans l'éther sans oiseau, Moi dont les Monitors et les voillers des Hanses N'auraient pas repêché la carcasse ivre d'eau;

Libre, fumant, monté de brumes violettes, Moi qui trouais le ciel rougeoyant come un mur Qui porte, confiture exquise aux bons poëtes, Des lichens de soleil et des morves d'azur;

Qui courais, taché de lunules électriques, Plance folle, escorté des hippocampes noirs, Quand les juillets faisaient crouler à coups de triques Les cieux ultramarins aux ardents entonnoirs;

Moi qui tremblais, sentant geindre à cinquante lieues Le rut des Béhémoths et les maelstroms épais, Fileur éternel des immobilitiés bleues, Je regrette l'Europe aux anciens parapets!

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J'ai vu des archipels sidéraux! et des îles Dont les cieux délirants sont ouverts au vogueur: - Est-ce en ces nuits sans fonds que tu dors et t'exiles, Million d'oiseaux d'or, ô future Vigeur? -

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. O que ma quille éclate! O que j'aille à la mer!

Si je désire une eau d'Europe, c'est la flache Noire et froide où vers le crépuscule embaumé Un enfant accroupi plein de tristresses, lâche Un bateau frêle comme un papillon de mai.

Je ne puis plus, baigné de vos langueurs, ô lames, Enlever leur sillage aux porteurs de cotons, Ni traverser l'orgueil des drapeaux et des flammes, Ni nager sous les yeux horribles des pontons.http://www.crescentmoon.org.uk/cresmorimbpohttp://www.harpa.com/harpahom000z3l5h4x9r7/poetry/rimbaud_bat.htmhttp://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Bateau.html

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Arthur Rimbaud - The drunken boatThe drunken boat

Poet: Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)Translator: Oliver BernardVolume: Arthur Rimbaud, Collected PoemsYear: 1962

As I was floating down unconcerned RiversI no longer felt myself steered by the haulers :Gaudy Redskins had taken them for targetsNailing them naked to coloured stakes.

I cared nothing for all my crews,Carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons. When, along with my haulers those uproars were done with The Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.

Into the ferocious tide-ripsLast winter, more absorbed than the minds of children,I ran ! And the unmoored Peninsulas Never endured more triumphant clamourings

The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves Which men call eternal rollers of victims, For ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights !

Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,The green water penetrated my pinewood hull And washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains and the splashes of vomit,Carring away both rudder and anchor.

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures ; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down ;

Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriumsAnd slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight, Stronger than alcohol, vaster than musicFerment the bitter rednesses of love !

I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings, and the waterspouts And the breakers and currents ; I know the evening,And Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,And sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw !

I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors.Lighting up long violet coagulations, Like the performers in very-antique dramas Waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds !

I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snowsThe kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,The circulation of undreamed-of saps,

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And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus !

I have followed, for whole months on end, the swellsBattering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows, Never dreaming that the luminous feet of the MarysCould force back the muzzles of snorting Oceans !

I have struck, do you realize, incredible FloridasWhere mingle with flowers the eyes of panthersIn human skins ! Rainbows stretched like bridlesUnder the seas' horizon, to glaucous herds !

I have seen the enormous swamps seething, trapsWhere a whole leviathan rots in the reeds !Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calmAnd distances cataracting down into abysses !

Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals !Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfsWhere the giant snakes devoured by verminFall from the twisted trees with black odours !

I should have liked to show to children those dolphinsOf the blue wave, those golden, those singing fishes.- Foam of flowers rocked my driftingsAnd at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.

Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,The sea whose sobs sweetened my rollingsLifted its shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward meAnd I hung there like a kneeling woman...

Almost an island, tossing on my beaches the brawlsAnd droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds,And I was scudding along when across my frayed cordage Drowned men sank backwards into sleep !

But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether, I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water, neither Monitor nor Hanse shipsWould have fished up ;

Free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky Which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious, Lichens of sunlight [mixed] with azure snot,

Who ran, speckled with lunula of electricity,A crazy plank, with black sea-horses for escort, When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows Skies of ultramarine into burning funnels ;

I who trembled, to feel at fifty leagues' distanceThe groans of Behemoth's rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms

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Eternal spinner of blue immobilitiesI long for Europe with it's aged old parapets !

I have seen archipelagos of stars ! and islandsWhose delirious skies are open to sailor : - Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,Million golden birds, O Life Force of the future ? -

But, truly, I have wept too much ! The Dawns are heartbreaking.Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter : Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours. O let my keel split ! O let me sink to the bottom !

If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the Black cold pool where into the scented twilightA child squatting full of sadness, launchesA boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.

I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,Sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons,Nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants,Nor pull past the horrible eyes of the hulks.http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Boat.htmlhttp://www.harpa.com/harpahom000z3l5h4x9r7/poetry/rimbaud_bat.htm(http://www.crescentmoon.org.uk/cresmorimbpo)

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Edgar Allan Poe - The RavenThe Raven

Poet: Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)Year: Published 1845

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before."Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed

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he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore."Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before-On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden boreOf 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust anddoor;Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee

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Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!-Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted- nevermore! www.poemuseum.org

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Julio Cortázar - Noticia para viajerosNoticia para viajeros

Poeta: Julio CortázarVolumen: Prólogo de «Nicaragua, tan violentamente dulce»Año: 1980

Si todo es corazón y rienda sueltay en las caras hay luz de mediodía,Si en una selva de armas juegan niñosy cada calle le ganó la vida,

No estás en Asunción ni en Buenos Aires,No te has equivocado de aeropuertoNo se llama Santiago el fin de etapaSu nombre es otro que Montevideo.

Viento de libertad fue tu pilotoY brújula de pueblo te dio el norte,cuántas manos tendidas esperándote,cuántas mujeres, cuántos niños y hombres

Al fin alzando juntos el futuro,Al fin transfigurados en si mismos,mientras la larga noche de la infamiase pierde en el desprecio del olvido

La viste desde el aire, ésta es Managuade pie entre ruinas, bella en sus baldíos,pobre como las armas combatientesrica como la sangre de sus hijos

Ya ves, viajero, está su puerta abierta,todo el país es una inmensa casa.No, no te equivocaste de aeropuerto:Entra nomás, estás en Nicaragua.

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Lewis Carroll - JabberwockyJabberwocky

Poet: Lewis Carroll (1832 - 1898)Volume: Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found ThereYear: 1871

'Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe;All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.

'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!Beware the Jubjub bird, and shunThe frumious Bandersnatch!'

He took his vorpal sword in hand:Long time the manxome foe he sought--So rested he by the Tumtum tree,And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and throughThe vorpal blade went snicker-snack!He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back.

'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?Come to my arms, my beamish boy!O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe;All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.

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Luis Manuel - S.O.S.S.O.S

Poeta: Luis Manuel

Va el cuarto corazón que se me rompey tú sin saber nada.Cierto es que se destrozan en silencio,que no son corazones extrovertidos ni alarmistas.Pero, por favor, presta atención.Sólo me queda uno de repuesto.

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Martin Niemöller - "Primero vinieron por..."

Poeta: Martin Niemöller (1892 - 1984)

Primero vinieron por los comunistas y no dije nada porque yo no era comunista. Luego vinieron por los judíos y no dije nada porque yo no era judío. Luego vinieron por los sindicalistas y no dije nada porque yo no era sindicalista.Luego vinieron por los católicos y no dije nada porque yo era protestante. Luego vinieron por mí, pero para entonces ya no quedaba nadie que dijera nada.http://www.rebelion.org/noticia.php?id=29882

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Pablo Neruda - GostoGosto

Poeta: Pablo Neruda

Gosto quando te calas...Porque ficas como ausente...E me olhas de longe e minha voz Não te alcança...Parece que meus olhos a vêem nublada...E parece que um beijo, faz com que tua boca fale tudo...Como todas as coisas estão cheiasDa minha alma...Emerges às coisas como que Saindo cheia de minha própria alma...Mariposa de sonhos,Parecida com minha própria alma...Te pareces com a palavra melancolia... Gosto quando calas... e ficas como distanteEstas como que se queixandoMariposa que está morrendo...Me olhas de longe e minhavoz não te alcança...Deixa que me cale com teu silêncio...Deixa que eu também fale com teu silêncio,Claro como uma lampadaSimples como um menino... És como a noite clara e estrelada..Teu silêncio fala com habilidade...Tão largado e sensível...Gosto quando calas porque é como Se estivesses ausenteDistante e dolorida como se tivesses morrido...Uma palavra , um sorriso e já fico feliz...Feliz com aquilo que não é certo...http://www.marcospontes.net/

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Robert Frost - Pan with usPan with us

Poet: Robert Frost (1874-1963)Volume: A Boy's Will Year: Published/Written in 1913

Pan came out of the woods one day,--His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,The gray of the moss of walls were they,--And stood in the sun and looked his fillAt wooded valley and wooded hill.

He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,On a height of naked pasture land;In all the country he did commandHe saw no smoke and he saw no roof.That was well! and he stamped a hoof.

His heart knew peace, for none came hereTo this lean feeding save once a yearSomeone to salt the half-wild steer,Or homespun children with clicking pailsWho see so little they tell no tales.

He tossed his pipes, too hard to teachA new-world song, far out of reach,For sylvan sign that the blue jay's screechAnd the whimper of hawks beside the sunWere music enough for him, for one.

Times were changed from what they were:Such pipes kept less of power to stirThe fruited bough of the juniperAnd the fragile bluets clustered thereThan the merest aimless breath of air.

They were pipes of pagan mirth,And the world had found new terms of worth.He laid him down on the sun-burned earthAnd raveled a flower and looked away--Play? Play?--What should he play?http://www.repeatafterus.com/title.php?i=2795http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/robertfrost/12052http://www.daypoems.net/poems/2634.htmlhttp://plagiarist.com/poetry/730/http://www.netpoets.com/classic/poems/076020.htm

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Walt Whitman - A Riddle SongA Riddle Song

Poet: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

That which eludes this verse and any verse,Unheard by sharpest ear, unform'd in clearest eye or cunningest mind,Nor lore nor fame, nor happiness nor wealth,And yet the pulse of every heart and life throughout the world incessantly,Which you and I and all pursuing ever ever miss,Open but still a secret, the real of the real, an illusion,Costless, vouchsafed to each, yet never man the owner,Which poets vainly seek to put in rhyme, historians in prose,Which sculptor never chisel'd yet, nor painter painted,Which vocalist never sung, nor orator nor actor ever utter'd,Invoking here and now I challenge for my song.

Indifferently, 'mid public, private haunts, in solitude,Behind the mountain and the wood,Companion of the city's busiest streets, through the assemblage,It and its radiations constantly glide.

In looks of fair unconscious babes,Or strangely in the coffin'd dead,Or show of breaking dawn or stars by night,As some dissolving delicate film of dreams,Hiding yet lingering.

Two little breaths of words comprising it,Two words, yet all from first to last comprised in it.

How ardently for it!How many ships have sail'd and sunk for it!

How many travelers started from their homes and neer return'd!How much of genius boldly staked and lost for it!What countless stores of beauty, love, ventur'd for it!How all superbest deeds since Time began are traceable to it-andshall be to the end!How all heroic martyrdoms to it!How, justified by it, the horrors, evils, battles of the earth!How the bright fascinating lambent flames of it, in every age andland, have drawn men's eyes,Rich as a sunset on the Norway coast, the sky, the islands, and the cliffs,Or midnight's silent glowing northern lights unreachable.

Haply God's riddle it, so vague and yet so certain,The soul for it, and all the visible universe for it,And heaven at last for it.