-1Arthur Rimbaud - Le bateau ivre

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

Comme je descandais des Fleuves impassibles,

Je ne me sentis plus guid par les haleurs:
Des Peaux-Rouges criards les avaient pris pour cibles,
Les ayant clous nus aux poteaux de couleurs.
J'tais insoucieux de tous les quipages,
Porteur de bls flamands ou de cotons anglais.
Quand avec mes haleurs ont fini ces tapages,
Les Fleuves m'ont laiss descendre o je voulais.
Dans les clapotements furieux des mares,
Moi, l'autre hiver, plus sourd que les cerveaux d'enfants,
Je courus! Et les Pninsules dmarres
N'ont pas subi tohu-bohus plus triomphants.
La tempte a bni mes veils maritimes.
Plus lger qu'un bouchon j'ai dans sur les flots
Qu'on appelle rouleurs ternels de victimes,
Dix nuits, sans regretter l'il niais des falots!
Plus douce qu'aux enfants la chair des pommes sures,
L'eau verte pntra ma coque de sapin
Et des taches de vins bleus et des vomissures
Me lava, dispersant gouvernail et grappin.
Et ds lors, je me suis baign dans le Pome
De la Mer, infus d'astres, et lactescent,
Dvorant les azurs verts; o, flottaison blme
Et ravie, un noy pensif parfois descend;
O, teignant tout coup les bleuits, dlires
Et rhythmes lents sous les rutilements du jour,
Je sais les cieux crevant en clairs, et les trombes
Et les ressacs et les courants: je sais le soir,
L'Aube exalte ainsi qu'un peuple de colombes,
Et j'ai vu quelquefois ce que l'homme a cru voir!
J'ai vu le soleil bas, tach d'horreurs mystiques,
illuminant de longs figements violets,
Pareils des acteurs de drames trs-antiques
Les flots roulant au loin leurs frissons de volets!
J'ai rv la nuit verte aux neiges blouies,
Baiser montant aux yeux des mers avec lenteurs,
La circulation des sves inoues,
Et l'veil jaune et bleu des phosphores chanteurs!
J'ai suivi, des mois pleins, pareille aux vacheries

-2Hystriques, la houle l'assaut des rcifs,

Sans songer que les pieds lumineux des Maries
Pussent forcer le mufle aux Ocans poussifs!
J'ai heurt, savez-vous, d'incroyables Florides
Mlant aux fleurs des yeux de panthres peaux
D'hommes! Des arcs-en-ciel tendus comme des brides
Sous l'horizon des mers, de glauques troupeaux!
J'ai vu fermenter les marais normes, nasses
O pourrit dans les joncs tout un Lviathan!
Des croulements 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
O les serpents gants dvors 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 cumes de fleurs ont berc mes drades
Et d'ineffables vents m'ont ail par instants.
Parfois, martyr lass des ples 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 genoux...
Presque le, ballottant sur mes bords les querelles
Et les fients d'oiseux clabaudeurs aux yeux blonds.
Et je voguais, lorsqu' travers mes liens frles
Des noys descendaient dormir, reculons!...
Or moi, bateau perdu sous les cheveux des anses,
Jet par l'ouragan dans l'ther sans oiseau,
Moi dont les Monitors et les voillers des Hanses
N'auraient pas repch la carcasse ivre d'eau;
Libre, fumant, mont de brumes violettes,
Moi qui trouais le ciel rougeoyant come un mur
Qui porte, confiture exquise aux bons potes,
Des lichens de soleil et des morves d'azur;
Qui courais, tach de lunules lectriques,
Plance folle, escort des hippocampes noirs,
Quand les juillets faisaient crouler coups de triques
Les cieux ultramarins aux ardents entonnoirs;
Moi qui tremblais, sentant geindre cinquante lieues
Le rut des Bhmoths et les maelstroms pais,
Fileur ternel des immobilitis bleues,
Je regrette l'Europe aux anciens parapets!

-3J'ai vu des archipels sidraux! et des les

Dont les cieux dlirants sont ouverts au vogueur:
- Est-ce en ces nuits sans fonds que tu dors et t'exiles,
Million d'oiseaux d'or, future Vigeur? Mais, vrai, j'ai trop pleur! Les Aubes sont navrantes.
Toute lune est atroce et tout soleil amer:
L'cre amour m'a gonfl de torpeurs enivrantes.
O que ma quille clate! O que j'aille la mer!
Si je dsire une eau d'Europe, c'est la flache
Noire et froide o vers le crpuscule embaum
Un enfant accroupi plein de tristresses, lche
Un bateau frle comme un papillon de mai.
Je ne puis plus, baign de vos langueurs, 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/cresmorimbpo
http://www.harpa.com/harpahom000z3l5h4x9r7/poetry/rimbaud_bat.htm
http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Bateau.html

-4Arthur Rimbaud - The drunken boat

The drunken boat

Poet: Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
Translator: Oliver Bernard
Volume: Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems
Year: 1962

As I was floating down unconcerned Rivers

I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers :
Gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets
Nailing 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-rips
Last 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, deliriums
And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music
Ferment 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 snows
The kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,
The circulation of undreamed-of saps,

-5And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus !

I have followed, for whole months on end, the swells
Battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,
Never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
Could force back the muzzles of snorting Oceans !
I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas
Where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers
In human skins ! Rainbows stretched like bridles
Under the seas' horizon, to glaucous herds !
I have seen the enormous swamps seething, traps
Where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds !
Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm
And distances cataracting down into abysses !
Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals !
Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs
Where the giant snakes devoured by vermin
Fall from the twisted trees with black odours !
I should have liked to show to children those dolphins
Of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fishes.
- Foam of flowers rocked my driftings
And at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.
Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,
The sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings
Lifted its shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me
And I hung there like a kneeling woman...
Almost an island, tossing on my beaches the brawls
And 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 ships
Would 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' distance
The groans of Behemoth's rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms

-6Eternal spinner of blue immobilities

I long for Europe with it's aged old parapets !
I have seen archipelagos of stars ! and islands
Whose 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 twilight
A child squatting full of sadness, launches
A 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.html
http://www.harpa.com/harpahom000z3l5h4x9r7/poetry/rimbaud_bat.htm
(http://www.crescentmoon.org.uk/cresmorimbpo)

-7Edgar Allan Poe - The Raven

The 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 doorOnly 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 borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name LenoreNameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled 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 doorSome 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 exploreLet 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

-8he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber doorPerched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber doorPerched, 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 shoreTell 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 being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber doorBird 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 only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he flutteredTill I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown beforeOn 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 Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden boreTill the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On 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 censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee

-9Respite- 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 enchantedOn this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I imploreIs 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 adoreTell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name LenoreClasp 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 sitting
On 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 floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!
www.poemuseum.org

- 10 Julio Cortzar - Noticia para viajeros

Noticia para viajeros

Poeta: Julio Cortzar
Volumen: Prlogo de Nicaragua, tan violentamente dulce
Ao: 1980

Si todo es corazn y rienda suelta

y en las caras hay luz de medioda,
Si en una selva de armas juegan nios
y cada calle le gan la vida,
No ests en Asuncin ni en Buenos Aires,
No te has equivocado de aeropuerto
No se llama Santiago el fin de etapa
Su nombre es otro que Montevideo.
Viento de libertad fue tu piloto
Y brjula de pueblo te dio el norte,
cuntas manos tendidas esperndote,
cuntas mujeres, cuntos nios y hombres
Al fin alzando juntos el futuro,
Al fin transfigurados en si mismos,
mientras la larga noche de la infamia
se pierde en el desprecio del olvido
La viste desde el aire, sta es Managua
de pie entre ruinas, bella en sus baldos,
pobre como las armas combatientes
rica como la sangre de sus hijos
Ya ves, viajero, est su puerta abierta,
todo el pas es una inmensa casa.
No, no te equivocaste de aeropuerto:
Entra noms, ests en Nicaragua.

- 11 Lewis Carroll - Jabberwocky

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

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did 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 shun
The 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 through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He 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 toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

- 12 Luis Manuel - S.O.S.

S.O.S
Poeta: Luis Manuel

Va el cuarto corazn que se me rompe

y t sin saber nada.
Cierto es que se destrozan en silencio,
que no son corazones extrovertidos ni alarmistas.
Pero, por favor, presta atencin.
Slo me queda uno de repuesto.

- 13 Martin Niemller - "Primero vinieron por..."

Poeta: Martin Niemller (1892 - 1984)

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

- 14 Pablo Neruda - Gosto

Gosto
Poeta: Pablo Neruda

Gosto quando te calas...

Porque ficas como ausente...
E me olhas de longe e minha voz
No te alcana...
Parece que meus olhos a vem
nublada...
E parece que um beijo,
faz com que tua boca fale tudo...
Como todas as coisas esto cheias
Da minha alma...
Emerges s coisas como que
Saindo cheia de minha prpria alma...
Mariposa de sonhos,
Parecida com minha prpria alma...
Te pareces com a palavra melancolia...
Gosto quando calas... e ficas como distante
Estas como que se queixando
Mariposa que est morrendo...
Me olhas de longe e minha
voz no te alcana...
Deixa que me cale com teu silncio...
Deixa que eu tambm fale com teu silncio,
Claro como uma lampada
Simples como um menino...
s como a noite clara e estrelada..
Teu silncio fala com habilidade...
To largado e sensvel...
Gosto quando calas porque como
Se estivesses ausente
Distante e dolorida como se tivesses morrido...
Uma palavra , um sorriso e j fico feliz...
Feliz com aquilo que no certo...
http://www.marcospontes.net/

- 15 Robert Frost - Pan with us

Pan 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 fill
At 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 command
He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
That was well! and he stamped a hoof.
His heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
Or homespun children with clicking pails
Who see so little they tell no tales.
He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For sylvan sign that the blue jay's screech
And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
Were music enough for him, for one.
Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered there
Than 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 earth
And raveled a flower and looked away-Play? Play?--What should he play?
http://www.repeatafterus.com/title.php?i=2795
http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/robertfrost/12052
http://www.daypoems.net/poems/2634.html
http://plagiarist.com/poetry/730/
http://www.netpoets.com/classic/poems/076020.htm

- 16 Walt Whitman - A Riddle Song

A 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-and
shall 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 and
land, 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.