“The Drunken Boat
After Arthur Rimbaud : 1854-1891
How I descended the impassive rivers
No longer guided by the haulers;
Red skins had taken them as targets
Nailing their colours naked to the masts.
Incoherent to the crews,
The importers of Flemish wheat and English cotton,
When the boatmen had finished unloading
The rivers let me go as I pleased.
Into the furious awakening of the tides,
I, the winter previous, deafer than the brain of a child,
I ran! And the peninsulas departed,
Without sounding out triumphant.
The tempest blessed my maritime bath,
Lighter than a cork I danced upon the waves,
What are known as rollers, vice drowned,
For ten nights spun, not missing the silly winks from the bouys.
Softer than the skin of children, the peal of flesh,
The Irish sea inundated my craft of pine,
And the stains of Moorish wine, and vomit,
Bathed me, having dispersed with all rudders and hooks.
And lo’ and behold, I came to bathe in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused in its milk of stars,
Devouring the azure plains- where float
The pale, bloated corpses of the drowned;
Who, holding the brining blue trumpet’s delirious
Rhythm, slowly throughout the rupture of the days . . .”
Subterranean Blue Poetry