And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down.
Arthur RimbaudRead
The wolf howled under the leaves And spit out the prettiest feathers Of his meal of fowl: Like him I consume myself.
Interpretation
This quote reflects the self-destructive nature of consumption and the beauty that can arise from it.
In this quote, Rimbaud uses the imagery of a wolf howling and consuming its meal to illustrate the intense and sometimes destructive process of self-examination and creativity. The wolf represents an internal struggle, where the act of consumption symbolizes a deeper engagement with one's own experiences and emotions, suggesting that in this struggle, beauty can emerge even from darker aspects of life.
In practice
In a poetry reading, to illustrate the complexities of creation and self-reflection.
And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down.
My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?
In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.
Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
Tonight I feel the stars are out_x000D_ to use me for target practice.
Fly not yet; 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.
With a changing key, you unlock the house where the snow of whatβs silenced drifts. Just like the blood that bursts from Your eye or mouth or ear, so your key changes. Changing your key changes the word That may drift with flakes. Just like the wind that rebuffs you, Clenched round your word is the snow.
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds, And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.
My self-confidence can be measured out in teaspoons mixed into my poetry, and it still always tastes funny in my mouth.
I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No, it was the poetry.
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