No guesses for why Rimbaud remains a cult figure!
A poem for all those of us with shamanistic tendencies!
To me. The story of one of my eccentricities.
For a long time I boasted that I possessed all the possible landscapes, and I thought celebrities of painting and modern poetry were derisory.
I liked idiot paintings, doorways, decorations, travelling acrobats canvas, signs, popular illuminations; antiquated literature, church Latin, erotic books full of misspellings, our grandmothers novels, fairy tales, childhood little books, old operas, silly chorus, naive rhythms.
I dreamed of crusades, discovery travels without any attachment, republics without histories, stifled religious wars, revolutions of moral, movements of races and continents: I believed in all wonders.
I invented the colors of vowels! — A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green. — I made rules for the form and movement of every consonant, and I flattered myself to invent a poetic verb with instinctive rhythms that would be accessible sooner or later, to all senses. I reserved the translation.
It began as a consideration. I wrote silences, nights, I noted down what was inexpressible. I set vertigoes
