No, I didn’t write this, and I’ve spent more than a decade trying to come to terms with it and it’s author. I figure this little piece would shed some light into why the blog is called “The Festival of Patience”, as well as myself. The translator is Oliver Bernard. I would have used one of the more modern translations, but they’re all in boxes back in Hawaii. It’s from Rimbaud’s later works, during the Illuminations, but before The Season in Hell. It’s from a short collection of works titled alternatively “Festival of Endurance” and “Festival of Patience”. If anyone is interested I can provide the original French.
In the bright lime-tree branches
Dies a fainting mort.
But lively song
Flutters among the currant bushes.
So that our bloods may laugh in our veins,
See the vines tangling themselves.
The sky is as pretty as an angel,
The azure and the wave commune.
I go out. If a sunbeam wounds me
I shall succumb on the moss.
Being patient and being bored
Are too simple. To the devil with my cares.
I want dramatic summer
To bind me to its chariot of fortune.
Let me most because of you, o Nature,
– Ah! less alone and less useless! – die.
There where the Shepherds, it’s strange,
Die more or less because of the world.
I am willing that the seasons should wear me out.
To you, Nature, I surrender;
With my hunger and all my thirst.
And, if it please you, feed and water me.
Nothing, nothing at all deceives me;
To laugh at the sun is to laugh at one’s parents,
But I do not wish to laugh at anything;
And may this misfortune go free.