Arthur Rimbaud had travelled over thirty-thousand miles. What he was truly seeking in those years only he knew. In August of 1880 he advanced toward East Africa, passing through Bab Elmandeb, the Gate of Tears. The punishing rigors of transitory life primed him for his most difficult journey. He had written of the abyss in A Season in Hell, and would spend most of the last decade of his life in coarse conditions in Abyssinia. His letters speak of days and nights on horseback, the unforgiving terrain, further ambitions and failings, and his abysmal physical decline. In the corner of his room in the Hospital de la Conception, his crutches and artificial leg awaited in vain for him to rise. He had walked thousands of miles, rode horseback a thousand more, charted new territories, possessing the stamina to endure the physical punishment of treacherous journeys. He had even dreamed of having a son with whom he could impart his knowledge. Arthur lay, pitiably lean, the fat of his mind dissolving. All that he knew would soon be gone, ashes of experience scattering the coast of Marseilles.
The sturdy poet, once intoxicated with the promise of the open road, was fated to navigate the agony of final passage. This was his poetic arc, vaulting realm to realm. But let us not close conjuring his despair. Perhaps in the last stirrings of his consciousness he imagined himself being carried aboard, like Virgil, upon a fabled ship, setting sail for the African Continent that he had embraced as home.
Auto portrait Rimbaud in Abyssinia
November 10,1975
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Everything seemed to work for me yesterday but it's always lovely to see a new post from you and hear you read your own words. I like how your essay ends with Rimbaud imagining a voyage back to Africa. I always like to think of him creating new poems in his head, never to be written down but spiraling out into the universe, adding to the mystery.
I forgot, yesterday, to congratulate you on the anniversary of Horses. I will never forget those notes on the piano and your extraordinary opening line turning my world upside down. What a great journey it's been through all the years since.
Rimbaud's life became a poem. I wonder if he did any writing aside from his letters. That is such an interesting thought. Thank you Patti, today, 11/11 is the anniversary of my mothers passing. She would have liked you, she passed on 11/11/22 which would have seemed very interesting to her if she had been able to talk about it. And now we have Rimbaud to comfort us in light and dark times.
Everything seemed to work for me yesterday but it's always lovely to see a new post from you and hear you read your own words. I like how your essay ends with Rimbaud imagining a voyage back to Africa. I always like to think of him creating new poems in his head, never to be written down but spiraling out into the universe, adding to the mystery.
I forgot, yesterday, to congratulate you on the anniversary of Horses. I will never forget those notes on the piano and your extraordinary opening line turning my world upside down. What a great journey it's been through all the years since.
Rimbaud's life became a poem. I wonder if he did any writing aside from his letters. That is such an interesting thought. Thank you Patti, today, 11/11 is the anniversary of my mothers passing. She would have liked you, she passed on 11/11/22 which would have seemed very interesting to her if she had been able to talk about it. And now we have Rimbaud to comfort us in light and dark times.