Arthur Rimbaud

(20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891 / Charleville, Ardennes)

Antique


Gracious son of Pan! Around your forehead
crowned with flowerets
and with laurel, restlessly roll
those precious balls, your eyes.

Spotted with brown lees, your cheeks are hollow.
Your fangs gleam. Your breast is like a lyre,
tinklings circulate through your pale arms.
Your heart beats in that belly where sleeps the double sex.
Walk through the night, gently moving that thigh,
that second thigh, and that left leg.

Submitted: Saturday, April 03, 2010

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  • Michael Morgan (2/17/2014 10:23:00 PM)

    In French this poem is hypnotic and like a wind chime. In English, it's a little embarrassing (Report) Reply

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