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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A SEASON IN HELL: ILL WILL; MAUVAIS SANG, by ARTHUR RIMBAUD Poem Explanation Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: I await god greedily. Now that I am accursed, I detest my country Last Line: Hunger, thirst, shouts, dance, dance, dance, dance! Subject(s): Desire | |||
................................................ I await God greedily. . . . Now I am accursed, I detest my country. The best thing is to sleep, dead drunk, on the beach. ................................................ As a child, I admired the intractable convict who is always being sent behind bars; I would visit the inns and lodgings he might have hallowed with his presence; I saw with his eyes the blue sky and the flourishing toil of the countryside; I hounded his destiny into the cities. He had more strength than a saint, more good sense than a traveler -and himself, himself alone! as witness to his glory and his right. As I trudged along the highways on winter nights, without shelter, clothes, or food, a voice tugged at my frozen heart: "Weakness or strength: there you have it, strength. You know not where you are going nor why, you enter everywhere, and answer everything. No one will kill you any more than if you were a corpse." In the morning I looked so lost and woebegone that those I met perhaps did not see me. In the cities the mud looked suddenly red and black, like a mirror when the lamp shifts in the next room, like a treasure in the forest! Here's to luck, I cried, and saw a sea of flame and smoke up in the sky; and right and left, all kinds of riches flashing like a billion thunderbolts. But to me the orgies and comradery of women were forbidden. Not even a companion. I saw myself before an exasperated mob, facing the firing squad, weeping over a misfortune they could never understand, and forgiving! -Like Joan of Arc! -"Priests, instructors, schoolmasters, you are wrong to hand me over to justice. I have never belonged to these people; I have never been a Christian; I belong to the race that sang under torture; I do not understand laws; I have no moral sense; I am a brute: you are mistaken . . ." Yes, my eyes were shut in your light. I am a beast, a Negro. But I can be saved. You, maniacs, butchers, misers, you are false Negroes. Merchant, you're a Negro; judge, you're a Negro; general, you're a Negro; emperor, you scabby old itch, you're a Negro: you have drunk contraband liquor from Satan's workshop. -This people is inspired by fever and cancer. Cripples and old men are so respectable that they ask to be boiled. -The smartest thing to do is to leave this continent, where madness prowls in search of hostages for these wretches. I enter the true kingdom of the sons of Ham. Do I still know nature? Do I know myself? -Speak no more. I bury the dead in my guts. Shouts, drum, dance, dance, dance, dance! I do not even see the time when, as the white men disembark, I shall fall into nothingness. Hunger, thirst, shouts, dance, dance, dance, dance! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AMERICAN WEDDING by ESSEX HEMPHILL HISTORY OF DESIRE by TONY HOAGLAND ARISTOTLE TO PHYLLIS by JOHN HOLLANDER A SEASON IN HELL, SELECTION by ARTHUR RIMBAUD |
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