Oh that hot February morning! The South chose the wrong moment to revive the
memories of our absurd destitution, our young poverty.
Henrika had on a cotton dress with white and brown squares, which must have been all the rage last century, a bonnet with ribbons and a silk scarf. It was much sadder than a wake. We were taking a tour of the suburbs. The sky was overcast, and that wind from the South whipped up all the nasty smells from the ravaged gardens and dried up meadows.
It can’t have tired out my wife to the same extent as me. In a puddle left behind by the last month’s flood, on quite a high path, she pointed out to me some tiny fish.
The city, with its smoke and its industrial racket, followed us very far down the pathways. Oh for the other world, the residence blessed by heaven, and the shade! The South reminded me of the miserable incidents of my childhood, my summer despairs, the horrible quantity of strength and science that fate has always denied me. No! we will not spend the summer in this mean country where we will never be anything more than orphan fiancés. I no longer want this toughened arm to drag behind it a cherished image.
Note : These translations of prose poems taken from Illuminations by Arthur Rimbaud will eventually be published by Poetry in Translation, Editor, Sebastian Hayes. S.H.
