When we were in college, living in a Boston apartment, the guy across the hall loved Arthur Rimbaud. So often he'd say, 'Rimbaud, man, Rimbaud.'
So, in honor of Paris in July, and that long ago neighbor,
here is a poem by Arthur Rimbaud.
It's a board carved wooden cupboard;
the ancient dark-coloured oak
has taken on that pleasant air
that old people have; the cupboard is open,
and gives off from its kindly shadows
inviting aromas like a breath of old wine;
full to overflowing, it's a jumble of quaint old things:
fragrant yellowed linen,
rags of women's or children's clothes, faded laces,
grandmothers' kerchiefs embroidered with griffins;
- here you could find lockets,
and locks of white or blonde hair,
portraits and dried flowers
whose smell mingles with the smell of fruit. -
O cupboard of old times, you know plenty of stories;
and you'd like to tell them;
and you clear your throat every time
your great dark doors slowly open.
Arthur Rimbaud (20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891)
From Groundhog Day