SyNEstHeSiA
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854—1891)
- Vowels
A
black, E white, I red, U green, O blue: vowels,
I
shall tell, one day, of your mysterious origins:
A,
black velvety jacket of brilliant flies
which
buzz around cruel smells,
Gulfs
of shadow; E, whiteness of vapours and of tents,
lances of proud glaciers, white kings, shivers of cow-parsley;
I,
purples, spat blood, smile of beautiful lips
in
anger or in the raptures of penitence;
U,
waves, divine shudderings of viridian seas,
the
peace of pastures dotted with animals, the peace of the furrows
which
alchemy prints on broad studious foreheads;
O,
sublime Trumpet full of strange piercing sounds,
silences crossed by [Worlds and by Angels]:
–O
the Omega! the violet ray of [His] Eyes!
Pablo Neruda
(1904—1973)
Poetry
And it
was at that age . . . poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, not silence,
but from a street it called me,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among raging fires
or returning alone,
there it was, without a face,
and it touched me.
I
didn't know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind.
Something knocked in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first, faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing;
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
the darkness perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire, and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.
And I,
tiny being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss.
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.
Victor Hugo
(1802—1885)
June Nights
In summer, when day has fled, the plain covered with flowers
Pours out far away an intoxicating scent;
Eyes shut, ears half open to noises,
We only half sleep in a transparent slumber.
The stars are purer, the shade seems pleasanter;
A hazy half-day coulours the eternal dome;
And the sweet pale dawn awaiting her hour
Seems to wander all night at the botom of the sky.
Edgar Allen Poe
(1809—1849)
Alone
From childhood's hour
I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone —
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —
Joris-Karl Huysmans
(1848-1907)
"Indeed, each liquor
corresponded in taste, he fancied, with the sound of a particular
instrument. Dry curaçao, for example, resembled the clarinet in its
shrill, velvety tone; kümmel was like the oboe, whose timbre is
sonorous and nasal; crème de menthe and anisette were like the
flute, both sweet and poignant, whining and soft. Then to complete
the orchestra come kirsch, blowing a wild trumpet blast; gin and
whisky, deafening the palate with their harsh eruptions of cornets
and trombones; liqueur brandy, blaring with the overwhelming crash
of tubas, while the thundering of cymbals and the big drum, beaten
hard, evoked the rakis of Chios and the mastics."
William
Blake
(1757—1827)
The Wild Flower's Song
As I wander'd
the forest,
The green leaves among,
I heard a wild flower
Singing a song.
I slept in the Earth
In the silent night,
I murmur'd my fears
And I felt delight.
In the morning I went
As rosy as morn,
To seek for new joy;
But O! met with scorn.
Joseph Brodsky
(1940—1996)
A Song
I wish you were
here, dear,
in this hemisphere,
as I sit on the porch
sipping a beer.
It’s evening; the sun is setting,
boys shout and gulls are crying.
What’s the point of forgetting
if it’s followed by dying?
Fernando Pessoa
(1888—1935)
The Tobacconist's
I am
nothing.
I shall always be nothing.
I can only want to be nothing.
Apart from this, I have in me all the dreams in the world.
Anna Akhmatova
(1888—1966)
In Dream
Black and enduring separation
I share equally with you.
Why weep? Give me your hand,
Promise me you will come again.
You and I are like high mountains
and we can't move closer.
Just send me word,
At midnight sometime through the stars.
