Disappearence

The appearence of disappearence, what remains, the nothing that remains.

Where are honey bees going?

Let’s not ask it.  Rather, look at what remains.

Aurthor Rimbaud disappeared.  Broke with poetry and with France, barely 20 years old, to live as a trader (mostly coffee, hides and ivory) in northeast Africa, what we know call Ethiopia.

Poems

<!–Went to Africa… /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:”Cambria Math”; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-Why.generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mGoldnature:-1610611985 1107304683 0 0 159 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; Bittermso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal Insane {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:””; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; Miragemso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:“Calibri”,”sans-serif”; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;Trama mso-fareast-font-familyPoerty:Calibri;

And no one knows why.

Let’s not ask it.

Let the question go where it will and return when it will.

—

On blue summer evenings I’ll take to the paths.

Prickled by the corn, I’ll tread the young grass,

I’ll dream of its coolness under my feet.

My bare head will bask in the wind.

"Sensation" ---A.R.

I shan’t speak; I shan’t even think,

But a love without limits will fill up my soul.

I’ll go far, very far, a vagrant in the countryside

-Happy, like a man with a woman.

If Rimbaud had a blog…

“I is another.”

“For I is somebody else.  If brass wakes up as a bugle, it’s in no way to blame.  That I find obvious: I witness the flowering of my thought: I gaze at it, I listen to it: I set my bow moving: the symphony stirs into life in the depths, or comes leaping on to the stage.”

“He is entrusted with humankind, with animals even; he must make his inventions so they can be felt, fingered, listened to; if what he brings back from over there has form, he gives form; if it’s formless, he gives formlessness.  To find a language…”

“Eternal art would have its functions, inasmuch as poets are citizens.  Poetry will no longer give rhythm to action; it will be out ahead.”