20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891)
Just a few meters from the grand place in Brussels hangs this plaque
where the Courtrai hotel stood where Arthur Rimbaud was shot and wounded
by his lover, the poet, Paul Verlaine on the 19th of July 1873
I’LL NEVER LOVE AGAIN
THE BALLAD OF ARTHUR RIMBAUD
I LOVED HIM WELL
THOUGH I KNEW HE HAD A WIFE
I FOLLOWED HIM AROUND
TILL HE TRIED TO TAKE MY LIFE
I WAS FAITHFUL — I WAS TRUE —
HE HAD A NEW BORN BABY, TOO
HE WAS THE GREATEST POET THAT I KNEW
FROM PARIS TO LONDON TO BRUSSELS
WE FOLLOWED
MISTRESS IN BODY AND MISTRESS IN BOTTLE-
FAITHFUL RIMBAUD AND
TREACHEROUS ABSINTHE
ONE WANTED HIM TO RISE,
THE OTHER WANTED HIM TO SINK
CHORUS: I GAVE IT ALL UP FOR LOVE
AND I’LL NEVER LOVE AGAIN
POETRY AND PAULIE WERE TOO CLOSELY LINKED
I’LL NEVER WRITE AGAIN IT WOULD CAUSE ME TO THINK
OF HOW I FELT, AND HOW I KNELT
AND HOW MY POOR YOUNG HEART WAS SHOT TO PIECES
NOW I BID THIS CURSED CONTINENT FAIRWELL
AND A LOVE TOO TRUE I MUST SHELVE
IF IT WAS A CRIME, IT WAS THE CRIME OF LOVING TOO MUCH
IT WAS THE BRIDEGROOM FROM HELL THAT ROUGHED ME UP
THOUGH THE BULLET FROM HIS GUN ONLY GRAZED ME
MY HEART EXPLODED DEVASTATINGLY
I WAS THE VIRGIN — I WAS THE BRIDE (NOW I’M THE WIDOW)
MY INNOCENCE IS ENOUGH TO MAKE ME CRY
IN SORROW AND IN SHAME HE WENT TO PRISON
I RETURNED TO MY MOTHER’S, WHERE I SET DOWN THIS VISION
AIN’T IT A SHAME WHEN YOUR LOVE IS IN VAIN
I SPENT A SPRING IN HELL WITH PAULIE VERLAINE
NOW IT’S TIME TO BURY MY MEMORIES
AS WELL AS MY CAREER AS TELLER OF STORIES
AND TRY TO LAUGH AT THESE AFFAIRS OF OLD
POSSESSING THE TRUTH — WITHIN ONE BODY — ONE SOUL
from the play TIGHTROPE (SEE WEB PAGE)
and see video
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nigOrDoH-T8
32:00-38:00
THE TRIAL Of ARTHUR RIMBAUD
INQUISITOR
Mssr. Rimbaud, do you solemnly swear to tell the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you god?
RIMBAUD
I do. But where to begin?
With your mouth that speaks of garlic and lilacs?
Or your feet, which reek of sulfur and sweat?
Or your cock, which still smells of last night’s encounter
with your mistresses fundament?
Yes, where to begin.
Oysters on the half shell. Mussels on a bed of leeks, endive.
Double fried potatoes, which the English, in all stupidity
forever changed the course of culinary history by calling
them French, when every German, Dutchman
or Frenchman know them as Belgian.
INQ
Now, now, Rimbaud. How old are you?
RIMBAUD
Old enough!
INQ
And how old is that?
RIMBAUD
I’m nineteen, but I’ll be twenty in a few months.
Want to send me a birthday gift?
INQ
Where do you live?
RIMBAUD
With my mother in Charleville, France, near the Belgian border.
INQ
Son, you’re on trial for the crime that hath no name.
RIMBAUD
What crime si that you ole’ buggerer?
INQ
How dare you call me a…
RIMBAUD
A buggerer?
INQ
You little snot nose!
RIMBAUD
The crime that hath no name? How about sodomy or fellatio?
INQ
Don’t put words in my mouth, Rimbaud.
RIMBAUD
Fellatio is in the mouth of the beholder, Inquisitor.
INQ
Come again? It is beauty that is in the mouth.
RIMBAUD
You bored old hypocrite. You miserable wretch.
Whip your horses to the utmost – excitement, money, politics!
You are on your way ot creating a whole nation of lunatics.
INQ
Listen to me, you little punk.
RIMBAUD
I am an animal, a nigger. But I can be saved.
Maniacs, savages, misers, all of you.
Businessman – general — emperor – president.
You’ve drunk a liquor no one taxes – – from Satan’s still.
This nation is inspired by fever and cancer.
Invalids and old men are so respectable that they ask to be boiled.
The best thing is to quit this continent where madness prowls —
out to supply hostages for these wretches.