Novel

This – one of my favourite poems when I was seventeen, and when I was eighteen, and when I was nineteen; well, pretty much ever since… I almost fell in love reading this poem – almost because I couldn’t find a girl walking by the pale light of streetlamps to fall in love with.

This reminds me of another beautiful story by R N Tagore, called Aparichitaa about a guy who doesn’t marry this girl because of dowry issues (actually, he is submissive kind of guy and it was really his uncle who was responsible for all that) and then falls in love with her in a train journey (they had never met). I think I’ll write about Tagore next.

I did another night-out yesterday. I watched another morning, another sunrise. Another sunrise from behind the hostel. To watch the warm sun in a beautifully coloured sky and to breath in the cool morning air, to look at the foggy air and the world in a subdued colour, and the patches of colour between radiant clouds, oh what crap!

I.

No one’s serious at seventeen.
–On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
–You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.

Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings sounds–the town is near–
And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .

II.

–Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .

June nights! Seventeen!–Drink it in.
Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
The mind wanders, you feel a kiss
On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .

III.

The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels
–And when a young girl walks alluringly
Through a streetlamp’s pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
Of her father’s starched collar. . .

Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
She turns on a dime, eyes wide,
Finding you too sweet to resist. . .
–And cavatinas die on your lips.

IV.

You’re in love. Off the market till August.
You’re in love.–Your sonnets make Her laugh.
Your friends are gone, you’re bad news.
–Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!

That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
You order beer or lemonade. . .
–No one’s serious at seventeen
When lindens line the promenade.

— Arthur Rimbaud

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Incorrigible Introvert

I wouldn't pretend I have a worthy tale to tell, I have only the ramifications of a twisted mind to sell.
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