>>7292032oh also it's embarassing but I found my first ever translation of my then-favorite Rimbaud poem from high school. It's really slant and I was just showing off and being faggy flowery. I remember having fun with it.
"Novel": Arthur Rimbaud - Poems
No one is serious at seventeen.
- A fine evening, hops of beer and lemonade,
Loud cafes with their lustrous glean!
We stroll under the green boughs of the promenade.
How pleasing the lindens smell on June nights!
The soft air makes blinking career.
The air sopped with sound - the distance of town lights
- Sopped with the perfumes of vineyards and beer....
See here a small canvas, a painting of
Blackberry beryl, framed between scion,
Held aloft by a stale star, swooping as dove
With small shivers, insignificant against zion...
June nights! Seventeen! It envelopes you in whips.
The sap is champagne and it sharpens our suspect...
We flirt; and we sense as a kiss fells upon our lips,
It strums itself soft, and chirps as an insect....
Our savage hearts pulse as through novels did Crusoe,
When there, in the brilliant pale of the lamp,
Underneath them an attractive girl does go,
Under evil umbrage of her father's collar, does she tramp...
And when she finds you immensely naive,
While clicking her boots -- the ears take sips
of her bountiful turn, her sounds deceive
- And catavinas die on your lips...
You are madly in love. Occupied through August.
You are bitterly in love. - Your sonnets bring forth her better.
Your friends depart, you remain in lust.
Then your love, one night, deigns to write you a letter...!
- That night,... -you return under brilliant cafe beams,
You order the hops and the lemonade...
- No one is serious, not at seventeen...
And you again have at the boughs of the promenade.
